


i'm weak, my love and i am wanting

by Spencer_Grey



Category: The Witcher (TV), The Witcher (TV) RPF, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A FIX IT FIC, Angst, Apologies, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri loves her dads, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Everyone Is Gay, Hurt/Comfort, I love her, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier is rightfully bitter, M/M, No Smut, No Yennefer, Post-Season/Series 01, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roach is a good girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer_Grey/pseuds/Spencer_Grey
Summary: It’s been years and still, the memory of the bard’s silky voice remains fresh in Geralt’s mind.(In which Geralt and Jaskier are reunited - much to the disappointed of the bard, who's become a twisted version of his old self. Geralt won't rest until he finds out what exactly happen to him.And he may or may not be in love.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 534





	i'm weak, my love and i am wanting

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot,,,,,, oops. I could carried away and you can definitely tell where I was going to stop things but decided against it. There isn't a prize if you find it but it'll make me laugh.

Geralt comes to realise the stares of the public - of the humans - will never fully stop bothering him, the wariness, the disgust. But, he supposes, stalking the snow-covered streets drenched in the black blood of the forsaken creature he’d been hired to kill doesn’t send the most friendly charm. He had thought about bathing before returning to town but all he wants right now is his payment and his horse. He rarely stays any longer than he must. 

Roach is waiting where he left her tied to a post outside the local inn. He checks her over in the guise of stroking her softly, but she’s more interested in the pile of hay before her. Geralt wonders if it would be taken from his pay, but as long as the inn owner has his coin ready, he couldn’t care less. 

Entering the inn, Geralt doesn’t blink as the lively buzz of its occupants wavers in his presence. There’s a lute player shrouded in shadows in the back - the only one to ignore the Witcher, the gentle tune filling the silence. Geralt almost falters, but clenches his jaw and pretends he doesn’t feel the weight of painful familiarity. 

It’s been years and still, the memory of the bard’s silky voice remains fresh in Geralt’s mind. 

The inn owner stands by the front desk, a pouch in his hand. Geralt takes it without a word, and the man doesn’t waste time trying to speak either. The wood floor creaks under his weight as he leaves. Against his rationality, Geralt takes one quick glance at the lute player, unsure whether he wants to recognise him or not. 

Either way, he doesn’t. Geralt keeps moving. 

Roach knocks him with her snout as he unties her.

“Don't give me that,” he mutters. It doesn’t mean anything that he can’t hear a lute without thinking of that damn bastard. Honestly. But Roach always seems to think otherwise. 

He brushes her mane, secures the pouch to his belt, and mounts Roach. Without needing instructions, she gallops out of town, into the wilderness where Geralt feels safe enough to let his mask slip - if just a little. 

He won’t lie and say that the bard meant nothing to him, their time together was some of Geralt’s most fondest memories. But they’re all tainted with their bitter departure, and Geralt would rather keep that memory deep in the background of his mind. 

Geralt smoothes his features and forces himself to stay focused on the present. 

-

Geralt spends many more months alone, with only Roach to keep him company as he prefers. As the snow melts to give way to the vibrant flowers of springs, Geralt finds himself drifting towards the warm glow of lights. They lay just over a hill - a town huddled against the edges of an expansive forest. 

At first, he thought about carrying on, camping in the trees, but he thinks Roach is growing tired of that, wanting one night warm and safe in a stable.

He comes across a tavern nestled in the centre of town with rooms on top - music, cheers, and laughter swell from inside. He leads Roach to the stables out back, and with a pouch of coins and his sword hanging at either of his sides, Geralt enters the building. 

After waving down a barmaid and being told to wait a few minutes, Geralt settles at a table furthest from the bar, from the roaring crowds. It’s more comfortable back here, where he’s easily ignored. He’s starting to think the barmaid had forgotten about him, and as Geralt is about to inquire further, a tumultuous yell catches his attention. 

He rolls his eyes, finding that he’s witness to some messy brawl - a mob circling around one lone man. Geralt is content to ignore it all in favour of his ale, petty fights between drunken men give him no pleasure. 

But when a man is thrown onto Geralt’s table, knocking his drinks all over his pants, Geralt leaps to his feet, ready to throw himself into the fight. He gets a glance at the man before he flies from the table, roaring back into the brawl with a wicked smile. 

And in that glance, that achingly fast heartbeat, Geralt’s breath lodges in his throat - piercing blue eyes look back at him. A tuft of dark hair disappears as he goes bouncing back into the fight, his fists in a fury. 

There’s no time to even breathe, Geralt goes through a stunned daze, to overwhelming relief, to a crushing sense of guilt, all within a blink. Without thinking, he hurls himself into the middle of the scuffle - taking on the group hanging up on the man. 

It’s over before it really begins. It takes barely a hit each to knock out the drunken men, they go down without any resistance. Geralt spins around, just in time to block a swinging fist. The man before him pants, his bleeding lips curled in an electrifying grin, eyes lit up like the sun. 

“Jaskier?” 

Staring up at him and swaying slightly on his feet, a thousand unguarded emotions swirl across Jaskier’s face - moving all too quickly for Geralt to catch. 

“My old… Geralt,” Jaskier says, a faint slur to his words. He drops his arm, glancing up and down Geralt’s body, and the Witcher is struck with the sudden realisation just how long it’s been. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to do with himself, he takes Jaskier in. His hair is longer, unkempt. And despite his bright eyes, there’s a red mark under his left one where a painful bruise will surely form. But other than that and a split lip, he seems fine. 

This is all too strange. Geralt never pegged Jaskier to be involved in something like this. To have his face busted up and still be smiling. 

Geralt grimaces. “My friend,” he says. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Is it?” 

Jaskier spins on his heel, heading for the bar. Geralt hesitates for a moment, watching the bard down almost a whole pint. He joins his side, sending a quick glance to the where the men still lay where he left them - doubting anyone would come to move them. 

Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge his presence. 

“It’s been too long,” Geralt says. “How have you been?” 

Jaskier doesn’t answer. Geralt sees the way his eyes look briefly to the barmaid and takes away his cup before he can ask for another drink. Jaskier scowls at the action, the expression feels foreign on the gentle man’s face. 

“I’ve been j-just fine. N-never better, actually. So…” Jaskier trials off. He twists to lean back against the bar, watching the room with an unfamiliar sharpness. Even intoxicated, Jaskier looks highly alert. 

Where he learned this from, Geralt longs to know. He’s never felt more confused and he hates it. This isn’t the bard he remembers - the friendly, good-hearted man that Geralt grew so fond of.

“Care to enlighten me why those guys were trying to fight you?” Geralt follows Jaskier’s suit, hoping to find what he’s looking for. 

Instead of replying, Jaskier spots something - someone - and leaves Geralt without a word. 

_Follow him_ , a voice whispers in his mind. There is something clearly wrong, and it shakes Geralt to his very core. This unnatural apathy the bard wears, a crown moulded from coldness when Geralt himself is burning with _everything_. Too much and not enough. 

He owes Jaskier this, at the very least, to make sure he’s safe for the night. After leaving him unprotected for all this time, tonight not another hair on his head will be touched. 

And he very well does almost follow the bard, wanting to be glued to his side. 

But Jaskier drops down at a lively table, interrupting the conversation. He takes a woman’s drink, swallows the contents with ease, and runs his mouth off. His voice just reaches Geralt at the bar. With a quick glance, Geralt understands Jaskier wants him gone. 

-

The pungent stench of booze reeks and the yells and cheers of drunks are all Geralt’s had to entertain himself for hours. Other than Jaskier’s wild expressions as he spins a tale, entrancing the group he sits with. If he had his lute, Jaskier would have this story told for years. 

Geralt’s eyes remain on Jaskier the whole time - even as the unconscious men were dragged away from the establishment - even as the men and women he planted himself with slowly dwindle until he’s the only one who remains, cheeks rosy and voice slurring. 

Geralt had presumed the bard wanted to sleep with one - or more - of the table and was already trying to work out how he’d keep an eye on Jaskier during it all. But even after a woman and two men each whispered in his ear as they slithered by, Jaskier never followed after them. He never looked in Geralt’s direction either, adamantly ignoring him. 

Geralt is starting to wonder if Jaskier is still mad about their less than sweet departure. 

Jaskier waves down a barman, his blue eyes half-closed as he asks - or more demands - another drink. The barman refuses and Geralt springs to his feet, sensing the sudden swing of Jaskier’s mood. Geralt’s between the two before he can properly stand, stumbling in place. 

“Pardon my friend,” Geralt says as Jaskier opens his mouth to argue. He holds onto the bard’s arm to keep him steady. “Do you have a room available?” 

The barman folds his arms, looking between the pair. A Witcher and a drunk, wanting them both gone. “He’s in room seven,” he says. 

Geralt reaches into his pocket, fishing out several coins for the man. “My horse is out the back. Keep her warm tonight.” 

“Yeah, alright, just get him outta here.” 

Geralt gives a nod in thanks, pulling Jaskier’s arm around his shoulders and drags him away. To his relief, Jaskier doesn’t struggle, all his energy fading away in Geralt’s hold. As they move, the bard’s mumbling some nonsense that Geralt doesn’t bother trying to understand. 

He finds the stairwell leading up to the room. He isn’t gentle with Jaskier, uncaring that his feet hit each step. He comes to terms with the fact that, if Jaskier were to throw up right now, he’d drop him without thought. Fortunately, he doesn’t, it seems that Jaskier has given up any hold on consciousness, and his head rolls from side to side. 

Finding room seven, Geralt fishes the key from Jaskier’s back pocket. The bard is dropped unceremoniously onto the small bed - Geralt sighs, rolling him onto his side. 

Watching Jaskier sleeping, his face smoothed into a peaceful slumber, Geralt can only wonder: how did he end up here? This very morning his only concern was where he’d sleep for the night, and now here he is, fussing over the bard he’d left all those years ago. 

He looks around the tiny room. The bed itself wouldn’t hold Geralt. There’s a small dresser nestled in the corner, though Geralt doubts there are any clothes in it. The only thing that strikes familiarity in this whole situation is Jaskier’s lute, discarded across the room. 

Geralt only now realised how strongly he misses the sound of it, of Jaskier’s alluring voice. During the long days and sleepless nights they spent together, Geralt could have always counted on Jaskier’s songs, the strum of music to comfort him. He wants to hear him now. 

How has it been so long? Fate brought them together, he is sure of that, so why did it take them apart? 

Geralt can’t answer that now, so he settles on the floor, laying so that he can face Jaskier and closes his eyes. 

-

Jaskier hasn’t stirred by noon. His loud snores are the only indication that he’s still alive. 

Geralt grows bored of waiting and goes to check on Roach. He finds the tavern almost wholly empty and he’s glad for the quiet, the constant buzz kept him awake most of the night. He finds that the barman had treated his horse well, a warm blanket sits over her back. 

She greets him with a whiny. 

“I know, I know,” he says gently. “We’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

Roach doesn’t look convinced, so he spends some time out there with her. He earns a few weird looks from the tavern workers as they pass by. Those glances he never minds. 

Once he’s sure she won’t get jealous that he’s giving Jaskier more attention than her, he heads back inside. The tavern offers little food but he collects lunch - well, breakfast - for him and Jaskier, going back to the room. 

He finds the door ajar, and the room empty. 

“Fuck.” 

Geralt drops the food, his heart going with it - and rushes downstairs, not quite understanding why he’s so worried. He almost runs into the barmaid from last night. 

She barely gives him a glance, saying, “You missed him by about ten minutes.” 

_That bastard_. The fact that Jaskier managed to slip by Geralt, and left without so much as a goodbye sends waves of frustration through Geralt. But he can’t figure out why he feels so strongly about it. 

Not that it matters, he’s out the door and climbing onto Roach before he can even process his moments. As they’re spreading through the streets, Geralt takes a guess and picks the east road, heading into the forest. 

He spots Jaskier’s distant figure and Roach runs faster on her own accord. It’s effortless to catch up to him, he’s hungover and on foot, but he’s still covered an impressive amount of distance. Jaskier doesn’t even blink as Geralt pulls up next to him. 

Jaskier is travelling with only his lute and his eyes are cold now - that lively spark having died. 

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. So he settles on, “Where are you heading?”

It’s subtle but Jaskier’s eyes dart to Geralt for a heartbeat, before coming to rest on the dirt path in front of them. 

“Anywhere. Nowhere.” His voice is low, sharp like a sword. 

“Would you believe that’s where I’m going?” 

“I don’t believe anything you say.” 

Geralt takes a sharp breath - as good as a wince he’ll give. Jaskier sees it, the hint of a smirk on his swollen lips. His left eye is purple and he winces ever so slightly with each step. Geralt knows there are bruises under his clothes and yet, Jaskier keeps walking as though there’s nothing wrong. 

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” Geralt asks. He considers offering him a ride on Roach but thinks he’d refuse anyway. 

“Well, the Butcher of Blaviken showed up. Thought it wise to get my ass out of there.”

Geralt grunts at the jab. Roach’s hooves on the ground are the only sound for a long few hours. Jaskier is in no mood to talk. An eerie switch of their previous roles. 

“What happened last night?” Geralt despises that he’s asking so many questions - and getting nothing in return. 

Jaskier gives something that’s a mixture between a scoff and a chuckle. “Exactly what it looked like.”

“Someone started trouble?”

“ _I_ started trouble.”

“Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Why not? I was there, he was a dick.”

“A dick with friends,” Geralt notes. 

“Well, I didn’t know about that part.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Is this what you’ve been up to all these years?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jaskier snaps. “I got drunk, I’m not _a_ drunk.”

“Good to know.”

Geralt bites his tongue from asking anything more, the last thing he wants is Jaskier snapping at him again. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. About everything, about leaving you. What I said was cruel and I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. You don’t have to forgive me, in fact, you shouldn’t, but you should know how sorry I am.”

“Hmm.”

It’s only when the sky begins to fade into a painting of blues and pinks and oranges that Geralt speaks again. 

“We should stop, find somewhere to camp while there’s still daylight.”

Jaskier looks ready to argue. But he bites the inside of his cheek, takes a deep breath, and huffs out, “Fine.”

-

The crackle of the fire fills the painful silence. Sitting on small logs, Geralt and Jaskier haven’t said a word to each other since the moon had risen. Jaskier is devouring the rabbit that Geralt caught. Geralt had only taken a leg, seeing how starving the bard was. 

Geralt’s mind has been racing for the past few hours, trying desperately to figure out what could have happened to Jaskier. He knows that he’ll get no answers, no matter how hard he pushes, but it’s torture to simply sit here. Jaskier has at least accepted to travel with the Witcher. 

“Where are you heading?” Geralt asks again. 

Jaskier says, “I already told you.” 

“The nearest town is still two days ride. Might as well start talking.” 

Jaskier grimaces. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “Wherever will take me.”

_Finally getting somewhere_ , Geralt thinks. He knows when to tread lightly, when to push this delicate balance between them and when to pull back. But he also wants answers before they reach the next town, before Jaskier has a reason to leave. 

“Play me a song,” Geralt says. “Tell me about your adventures.” 

Whether it’s the thickening night or a trick of the firelight, Jaskier’s eyes darken, like a door slamming shut. Turning empty, lifeless. 

“I don’t play anymore.” Jaskier’s voice barely breaks through the night - less than a whisper. He can’t bring himself to look at Geralt - ashamed. 

“How come?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes. Why carry it around then?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier finally meets his gaze, bringing his arms to wrap around his body - hugging himself. “Seemed disrespectful to Filavandrel to just abandon it.” 

Geralt nods, he isn’t sure what he could say. He can’t imagine what could stop the bard from playing, what level of pain and trauma could scar him so horribly he can’t bring himself strum a tune. He doesn’t want to think about it too long. 

Jaskier throws the last of the rabbit’s bones into the fire, wiping his hands on his pants. “Well,” he starts, unsure of himself, “it’ll be a long day tomorrow.” 

Jaskier shuffles off his log, sitting in his bedroll in the dirt behind it. Despite his best efforts, Geralt catches his wince, the way his hand comes to rest on his rib cage. 

“You’re injured,” Geralt states, earning a glare from Jaskier. “Let me have a look.”

“ _No_.” 

It comes so quickly, so sharply that Geralt almost flinches back in surprise. Jaskier takes a controlled breath, ignoring Geralt’s worried gaze, and lays back - curling on his side, facing away from the fire. 

It’s a long moment later that Geralt says anything else. “Will you be here in the morning?” 

He feels as though he’s asking the certainty of the night - for a moment he did equate the two. Believing that Jaskier would be as reliable, as constant as the moon rising after each day. But it is his own fault that that came to be wrong. 

Jaskier hesitates - Geralt thinks he won’t respond until he says softly, “We’ll see.” 

Geralt accepts that much. He knows better than to ask for more. He checks on Roach one last time before laying down, head turned towards Jaskier - praying it won’t be the last time they see each other. 

-

Geralt wakes with the gentlest stream of sunlight on his face, letting out a sigh of relief as he sees Jaskier, still sleeping. He feared he would wake up alone, or wake up to the bard leaving him, unsure which one would be more painful. 

He remembers seeing a stream while hunting for last night’s dinner and goes to collect water for them both. 

The water’s cold as he splashes it on his face, washing away the tendrils of his dreams. He fills his canteen and takes the short walk back to Jaskier. The bard is still fast asleep, his face soothed into a peaceful expression. During the night, he’d rolled onto his other side, facing Geralt so he can see each minute detail of his expression. 

Given that, Geralt is privy to the minuscule changes of his face - his eyebrows pinching together, mouth tightening. Geralt thinks nothing of it, until Jaskier’s fist clenches, his knuckles turning bone white. And he makes a noise - a fucking _whimper_ in his sleep. 

It feels as though a dagger has struck Geralt in the heart - the mere sound alone sending mountains of pain and anger through him. 

As much as he hates to think about it, as much as it causes a protective rage to wash over him, he can see it now - someone’s hurt his bard. Badly. And he wasn’t there to protect him. 

He shouldn’t have left Jaskier. And it’s too late to make up for that. 

Jaskier whimpers again, curling in on himself - it makes him sound small, younger than his years. Geralt jumps to action, unable to stand it anymore. 

He crouches next to Jaskier, his hand coming to rest on the bard’s shoulder with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed. He gives him a small shake. Nothing happens. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, shaking him again. 

In a breath, in a rare moment of being caught off guard, Geralt finds himself thrown on the ground - his own weight used against him. Jaskier crouches over his chest, a dagger, no bigger than a butter knife but nonetheless sharp, digs into Geralt’s neck. 

Jaskier is breathless, his warm huffs blowing on Geralt’s face. His vibrant eyes are distant, clouded over as he all but snarls down at the Witcher. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, forcing himself to speak softly, calmly. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Geralt doesn’t dare breathe. The slightest exhale makes the blade dig deeper into his skin. Geralt can only look into Jaskier’s eyes, watching with intensity as a trembling heartbeat later, Jaskier blinks and comes rushing back to himself with a shaky breath. 

Throwing himself off the Witcher, Jaskier drops his dagger, his hand coming to cover his mouth as if he might throw up. 

Geralt is on his feet in seconds. “Jaskier?” 

“Don’t.” It’s weak, exhausted. The bard barely seems conscious. 

“Hey - ”

“I said _don’t_ ,” Jaskier hisses, regaining himself as though nothing happened. He holds himself high, swallowing back any fear that had once had overcome him. 

Geralt steps back - in both shock and respect, trying to put as much distance between them as he can stand. He studies Jaskier’s face, searching like a madman for something that could answer the questions scrambling about in his mind. 

It’s become less of a question of _what_ did this to Jaskier and more of _who_. _Who_ can Geralt kill in response? _Who_ is the one that must answer for whatever crimes committed against the kind bard? 

“Jaskier. Please,” Geralt begs. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t lower himself this far but he must know. Jaskier is his friend, his only friend, no matter how much time has stretched their bond. And Geralt will always be there for him. “What happened?” 

Like it takes all his strength, Jaskier says, “We should keep moving. Let’s not waste any time.” 

-

Jaskier accepts Geralt’s offer to ride Roach - though only after the Witcher climbed off and said he’d walk. He had tried to help the bard up, but as he flinched from any contact, Geralt gave up and watched on as Jaskier hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to catch his breath. 

Geralt was always on that preferred silence than pointless chatter but here, with Jaskier - the once lively bard with a voice that never wavered, never tired - Geralt finds this quiet unnerving. Like in battle, and he loses sight of his enemy. He knows it’s there, watching him, waiting for a moment to strike again. He wishes Jaskier would strike, to put Geralt out of his misery. 

So Geralt speaks instead - a conversation as aimless as the ones he hates. If Jaskier won’t talk about his time apart, then Geralt will talk about his. About the coven of witches that the townspeople believed were killing their young - which ended up as a nasty plague, and a mother and daughter living in the woods. About the wound that grew infected and Geralt spent days stuck in a feverish dream. About every mundane and Witcher piece of his years, all in a vain attempt to get Jaskier to talk. 

Which he does, occasionally. Mostly to laugh at Geralt’s misfortune, or to offer his opinion on problems Geralt has faced. 

But it’s enough. 

Geralt looks up at Jaskier throughout their journey - the midday sun hits just perfectly to send streams of light through Jaskier’s dark hair, making those vibrant eyes sparkle ever more. The purple bruise under his eye is a stark contrast to his pale skin, and his swollen lip is sure to sting. 

Jaskier either doesn’t see Geralt staring or doesn’t care. His gaze never leaves the road, and only his tightening grip on Roach’s reins give away his pain. 

Now, Geralt can see the handle of his dagger tucked in his waistband. He’s still desperate to know what gave the bard reason for protection. What makes his dreams linger in reality. 

“We should have a break. Stop for food and water,” Geralt says, 

“Why? Are you slowing down in your old age?” 

Geralt can’t help but chuckle at Jaskier’s jab, relishing in even the smallest smile on his face. 

“Maybe a little. You can’t deny an old man a rest, can you?” 

There’s a creek nearby that they come across. Roach drinks greedily from it, and Jaskier watches on - either in awe or annoyance - as Geralt spears a fish with his sword for lunch. 

They eat in silence once more - and as Geralt extinguishes the fire, Jaskier crouches back by the stream, washing his face in the cold water. 

As Jaskier outstretches his arms, and his sleeves pull back, revealing the faintest sliver of his bare wrists, Geralt feels a roar of anger he’s never felt before. A cold, silent fury that settles in the pit of his stomach - moulding his very bones into steel. 

“I suppose it’s only fair that we trade places,” Jaskier says - unaware of the storm brewing. “I can walk until nightfall.” 

He stands, brushing his damp hands on his pants, still not meeting Geralt’s eyes. The bard moves past him - and Geralt reacts on instinct. 

His hand shoots out, grabbing onto Jaskier’s arm. The bard flinches violently, free hand reaching behind him where his dagger lays. But he doesn’t pull it out. 

Geralt stares back into sharp blue eyes, Jaskier’s jaw is clenched so hard he might grind his teeth down. 

“What?” he hisses - not even bothering to struggle out of Geralt’s hold. 

Geralt tries to loosen his grip, his intention isn’t to scare the bard but his anger needs to go somewhere. _Just not here, not to him_. 

Slowly, Geralt pulls down Jaskier’s sleeve, exposing what he had seen. And, if only to confirm his suspicions, Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s other arm. He doesn’t fight it, letting the Witcher show what he’d tried to hide. 

Twin scars, circling either of his wrists, jagged and faded white. Shackles - the only explanation Geralt can think of - from a time of imprisonment. 

His voice threatens to betray him, but Geralt keeps a firm hold on it as he asks, “Who?” His eyes dart between the scars and Jaskier’s stoic face. 

“I don’t know,” he answers quietly. “They skipped introductions.” 

It only takes a soft tug for Geralt to drop Jaskier’s arms. The bard pulls his sleeves back down, stepping away from Geralt. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, knowing that no words can make this better. In a blink, his anger dissolves, seeing the pain - the shame in Jaskier’s eyes. 

“What’s done is done,” he says, forcing out each word. “I don't want to talk about it.” 

“I’ll find who did this,” Geralt says - ignoring Jaskier rolling his eyes. “And I’ll make them pay for what they’ve done.” 

Jaskier laughs - dry, spiteful. “You’ve missed your chance.” 

Geralt blinks. “You killed them?” 

“Don’t look so surprised. I’m more capable than you think.” 

Geralt can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Jaskier deserved that moment of justice - he deserves more. Geralt has half a mind to push back to urge ask any more questions. _Later_ , he tells himself, he will find out everything that happened to his bard. 

So, instead of the insistent questions that have only grown, Geralt says, “You can take Roach. The last thing I need is you keening over.” 

Jaskier hesitates - caught between moving on and the reminder of his past - but in one swift motion, his whole demeanour shifts. “Just as I think you’ve grown manners,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

Jaskier accepts Geralt’s help up onto Roach. 

Geralt’s anger never lessens. 

-

“What’s become of Yennefer?” 

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Alright.” 

-

They’d taken not ten steps into the village when Geralt is rushed by the mayor, hiring him immediately. An alghoul has taken host to the nearby cemetery - more vicious, more intelligent than regular ghouls. It’ll kill the entire town if not stopped, having already made a dent on an already small population. 

But first, with the deposit made, Geralt books a room for him and Jaskier, and orders a plethora of food - a bribe more than a plea that the bard will still be there when he returns. Jaskier doesn’t look sure but agrees nonetheless. And with that, Geralt and Roach went off. 

He returns a couple hours later, weary and worn, collects his full pay, and finds their room. He sees Jaskier’s lute laid on one of the two beds, and the room is deadly silent. Like he’s being stripped of anything joyful in the world, Geralt has the harrowing thought that the bard has abandoned both the instrument and the Witcher. 

Geralt sighs. He’d gotten so attached to the idea of travelling with Jaskier again and the heavy weight in his chest threatens to drag him down. Is this how Jaskier felt, all those years ago, when Geralt simply didn’t look for him again? 

Maybe he deserves this then. 

Looking around the room, Geralt isn’t sure where to go from here. He needs to bathe - he stinks and needs a distraction, something to lift this sinking numbness. 

He passes Jaskier’s lute. He could pawn it off, it’ll earn him enough for months, but can’t entertain that thought for long. He’ll find a use for it since the bard doesn’t seem to want it. 

He crosses the room in a few large strides and pushes open the bathroom door. Geralt stops short, eyes narrowing at the already filled bath - the air is humid and foggy in the multitude of candles’ glow. But he sees nothing in the tub. 

Until a head breaks through the water and Jaskier’s panting breaths echo in the otherwise silent room. The small drops of water hitting water do little to cover his heaves. He’s facing away from Geralt, shaking the glistening water from his hair. 

Geralt can’t decide whether to make his presence known. He wants to stand there, watching Jaskier with his guard vanished, no hesitations, and to bathe in the sight of his glorious body. Geralt wants to relish in this, this image of Jaskier as wholly himself. 

Geralt doesn’t dare breathe, a simple whisper could shatter this painting. He drinks it all in - the curve of Jaskier’s back as he arches, slender hands running through his soft hair, water trickling down his skin, the edge of his jawline in the golden light. He wants to keep this all. 

Geralt could stand in the doorway forever, a mere observer - a planet orbiting the sun, indebted for the warmth and beauty given - of Jaskier and his natural beauty. Geralt can’t imagine ever letting this go, purposefully denying himself this blessing. Why did he? How could he bear to leave the bard when he… 

_Oh_. 

He loves Jaskier. 

Geralt can’t stop the breath that escapes his lips, like cold water waking him from a deep slumber, a slap across the face in the form of a startling realisation. 

He barely made a sound and yet, Jaskier whips around as if he’d stormed inside. He dips further below the water, pressing himself against the far end of the bath. He glares at Geralt, lips parted in a shocked “o”. 

“Do you mind?” Jaskier snaps before an apology can fall from Geralt’s mouth. “Fuck off.” 

Geralt can’t speak. He slams the door shut behind him and leans against the wood, cursing himself. His mind is somehow both racing with thousands of thoughts and numbly blank. 

What he just saw, what he just realised, what he just fucked up - he doesn’t know how to process it all. 

But no matter what, he knows better than to mention how he saw the long, thick scars that travelled the length of Jaskier’s back - like his skin had been torn apart - as faded white as the ones on his wrists. Geralt swallows his anger back down, knowing he’d only gotten a glimpse at the extent in the candlelight. 

-

Jaskier emerges not long after, dressed in the same dirty rags he has been for days. His damp hair hangs close to his ears and Geralt has only just noticed how much it’s grown. 

Geralt sits on the edge of one of the beds, unsure where he can look, where won’t make him feel anything else. Jaskier seems as awkward as him, standing against the wall and makes no move to speak. 

There’s a prolonged moment of silence before Geralt can’t handle it anymore. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks

“Starving.” 

-

Geralt doesn’t speak on Jaskier’s scars and Jaskier never brings up the bathroom incident. There’s a gentle balance between them - less delicate than before, though. Not quite such a thin layer of glass, too hard of a breath could have shattered it, but more of a clay house - layers of dirt glued together, stable but could still fall. 

And Geralt is sure to keep it strong and steady. He wants the balance to be stone, the thickest metal that can never be broken. He knows they never had that before, but maybe this time around, it can have time to grow. 

Jaskier continues his travels with Geralt, though there had been plenty of opportunities to leave and venture off. 

“I can count on meals when I’m with you,” he had justified. 

Geralt was in no position to complain. Jaskier is fine company, especially now that his tongue has seemed to have loosened and he speaks as freely as he once had. Geralt can’t get enough of the sound, like heaven has come to grace the Earth and it came in the voice of a sharp-eyed bard. 

It’s comforting, in a way that Geralt’s never had, to have someone to return to - after hours, if not days, of hunting and killing and fulfilling his duty as Witcher, to have a kind voice, an understanding face, _someone_ to take his mind and hold it gently. To brush away the horror he’s seen and Jaskier is willing to oblige. 

There have been times when their roles must be reversed, when Jaskier’s eyes are darker than a sea in a storm, and Geralt must comfort him. He is less experienced in this than the bard and helps in the way he knows works for himself. He brings Jaskier along on a job. If only to watch the violence - and maybe once as bait - and let his mind rest from the past. It works well enough. 

It takes mere weeks for Geralt to learn how to keep the balance constant. He comes to know better than to touch the bard as he sleeps - either calling his name or letting his nightmares wake himself up. He had to unlearn the skill of walking silently, at least, when he isn’t in Jaskier’s line of sight. 

It’s little things but they make an obvious difference in Jaskier’s behaviour - he’s more relaxed, happier. 

But despite Geralt’s best efforts, the rest of the world isn’t caught up. 

The crack of a bullwhip suddenly blasts through the air one day and Geralt’s world slows to a standstill. Jaskier’s eyes - once bright, now distant and unseeing - snap to the sound faster than Geralt could even process, his smile dropping. His body curls in on itself, flinching as if he’d been shocked, all but falling against Geralt at his side. 

Geralt catches him with ease, one hand supporting Jaskier’s heaving chest, the other reaching for Roach. 

“Jaskier?” His voice is rough, confused - scared. 

The bard is frozen. His mind somewhere else and Geralt doesn’t know what to do other than to bring Roach close - throwing Jaskier onto her back then leaping up after him. Leaning against Geralt’s hard chest, Jaskier is as tense as a rock. Like the whip has stolen him from his own body. 

If there was any doubt in Geralt’s mind about what happened to his bard, there is none now.

Roach doesn’t need any commands. She’s tearing through the town before Geralt can say anything - taking them both far from the invasive sounds, the watching public, the whip. 

Geralt’s torn between watching the road and watching Jaskier, the beads of sweat that are dripping down his sickly pale skin, eyes set to cry but no tears come. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, whispering right in his ear, fighting to break through the trance he’s been put in. “I’m here. You’re safe, I’m here.” 

Roach pulls into a trail heading deep into the forest, safer for them all. They’re a long way away from any form of civilisation, what feels like eons after they left town, before Jaskier stirs. First, a simple turn of his head, then, _throwing_ himself from Roach’s back. 

“Fuck.” Geralt isn’t far behind, moving slower and calmer as not to startle the bard. “Jaskier?”

He’s already meters away, stumbling until he leans against a tree, expelling the contents of his stomach. Geralt can only watch on, a useless bystander when there’s nothing he wants more than to hold Jaskier, to fight back the demons plaguing him. 

The seconds drag like hours, but once a decade - a minute or two - passes, Jaskier is standing a little straighter, breathing a little easier, and his eyes meet Geralt’s. They stare at each other for a moment, no words coming to either. 

Until Geralt has the genius idea and says, “Are you okay?” 

Jaskier looks at him like he’s an idiot with the most punchable face. He leans his back against the tree, sinking until he sits on the forest floor. Geralt follows suit, sitting a respectable distance away. 

Jaskier runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fucking perfect.” 

There’s silence. Geralt studies the bard’s face, trying to find any hint to lead him - he’s so far out of his league that he feels like he might drown under all this pressure. Pressure to say the right thing, react the right way, when he’s sure Jaskier doesn’t even know the right way. 

Gentleness isn’t Geralt’s strong suit but he wants it to be. Treating Jaskier as he might a spooked animal, he keeps his voice timid, quiet against the bustling forest life around them. 

“Jaskier - ” he starts. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” 

Taken aback, Geralt says, “That’s your name.” 

“I know that,” Jaskier retorts, body stiffening and Geralt snaps his mouth shut - wondering how he could ruin things so quickly. “But you don’t need to use it every three words. I’ve heard it more this month than the last decade.” 

“Maybe I missed saying it.” 

There. He said it. The words slipping from his tongue before he knew what he was saying. A weight from his shoulders lifting, and, as Jaskier’s bright eyes stare back into Geralt’s, he thinks that the bard might lift another. A more pressing one, one that Geralt needs desperately to deal with. 

Jaskier’s mouth opens - Geralt holds his breath to keep this sight from breaking - and he snorts. A full-blown snort that sends ripples of laughter through his body.

As confused as he is, Geralt stays silent, content to simply overlook this, the undeniable joy crossing Jaskier’s face, a smile brighter than the sun. As if all the anxiety and fear have simply vanished with Geralt’s words, and whether Jaskier is laughing at Geralt or not, he’d say it again and again if it got this reaction always. 

After a moment, Jaskier settles down, sighing contently. “And here I was, thinking you were still the same hard bastard.” 

“Time’s been a bitch to both of us,” Geralt says. 

“Now that I believe.” 

Jaskier sighs as he stares off, his shoulders hunching and his arms wrap around his waist. His demeanour shifts, the briefest flashes of shame cross his eyes. Geralt can’t figure out where he stands amongst the mess. Does he have the right to ask what happened? Did he ever have the right?” 

But it seems, the bard has always known Geralt better than the Witcher knew Jaskier. 

“Just… ask what you want to know,” Jaskier says. “I’m sick of you looking at me like that.” 

Geralt opens his mouth to detest the last part but decides against it. Instead, he tries, “Has… _that_ happened before?” 

“Yeah,” he answers after a moment. “A - a few times. But not like that. That was… new.”

Geralt nods, mentally trying to figure out if this is the place to offer comfort, or if he’s only here to listen. This is uncharted waters and he’s afraid of losing Jaskier out here. He has to tread lightly. 

“How - ” Geralt hesitates, choosing his words carefully - “how long ago did this happen?” 

Jaskier shrugs. “A week, maybe two, after we parted. I’m not so good with time anymore.”

He shouldn’t say it. _Don’t say it_. “It - it’s selfish, I know, but did you ever try to find me? I would’ve done… something. _Any_ thing to help you.”

Jaskier is silent for a long time. “There was nothing I wanted from you.”

“Is there now?”

Another pause. “I’m not sure.”

“Jas - ” Geralt stops himself. “Please, my friend, talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

Jaskier looks everywhere except for Geralt, eyes bouncing around so quickly as if they were to land on any one thing, it would burst into flames. Or he would. Either way, there’s a minutes silence before Jaskier opens his mouth again. And the words spill from his tongue like a waterfall. 

-

_It’s all too blurry now, given both time and his drunkenness have made the memory a distant haze. There are distinct moments that have been cemented in his mind, like a stain that will never be washed away. Tainted. Scarred._

_He remembers being angry - rightfully or not - because how dare this Witcher appear from nowhere, mysterious and alluring, with his blonde hair and toned body. And how dare he be surprised when Jaskier decided he could use some company, though under the guise of needing inspiration. Not a complete lie. But not the whole truth. And how dare he just leave, after everything, he simply left._

_So he took everything that had been building, let it fester until it all became a petty rage, and found the nearest tavern. He drank that night away in hopes of forgetting that bright hair, forgetting his scarred and calloused body, the way his indifference only made Jaskier swoon faster. He drank until it all left - every thought, every memory, and he was a stumbling mess of numbness._

_And that was it. His mind was swallowed by a great abyss and when he woke up, perhaps a day or two later, shackled like a prisoner, his brain was sure to leave this imprinted forever._

_Jaskier will never forget those initial hours of unbridled fear. His head ached terribly - from more than the liquor - and his hands were held above his head, his toes barely scraping the stone ground below him. In the impenetrable darkness, there was a sharp chill, sending shivers down his shirtless skin. Despite it all, he was never able to rest, fear and hunger kept him awake and exhausted._

_Until his captors arrived._

_A door opened with a creak, letting beams of light pierce his eyes, burning them until he could adjust once again. A metal tin was lifted to his lips and Jaskier knew he was in no position to argue. If it was poison than maybe it would kill him - he’d soon come to wish it had been._

_The blinding light hid his captors' faces, he could barely make out an outline when they left again. All he was sure of was there were multiple._

_He wouldn’t come to know what they wanted from him for days. Left dangling, the shackles dug into his flesh and struggling only tightened them. He quickly felt blood trickle down his arms._

_Jaskier prides himself on never begging to be let go, never showing an ounce of weakness. Maybe that was because he knew, deep down, that he had no one to fight for, no one to return to._

_But still, there was that whisper, that voice that always seemed mocking now sounded hopeful, saying that maybe, just maybe, Geralt would come. Like a knight in all the stories. The next time the door opened it would be him, the Witcher, with his flowing hair and enchanting eyes, and Jaskier would never have to think of this place again. Wherever he is. Wherever Geralt is._

_Jaskier was delirious, he could recognise that much, but still, that vision was enough to keep him going. And if he believed hard enough, who knew, maybe it would come true._

_Only, it didn’t, Geralt never came. The lashes did._

_No questions came with the first ten - just Jaskier’s screams ripping at his throat, flesh torn from flesh and blood that drenched his back. Suddenly Jaskier was thankful for the shackles, or he would’ve collapsed with the first strike._

_Then finally, an answer to why he was there._

_A man with greasy black hair dangling above his shoulders stood before Jaskier. His eyes, as black as the night, were empty - a pit that threatened to swallow Jaskier whole._

_“Geralt of Rivia,” the man said, and Jaskier almost rolled his eyes. “We hear you know him.”_

_“Knew. Past tense. As in, not anymore.”_

_Jaskier earned another ten lashes for that. With his mind in a blur, desperately trying to claw at any hold of consciousness, Jaskier felt his hair be yanked back. And he found himself staring up at the man._

_“Don’t lie to me, boy,” he hissed, his breath made Jaskier want to vomit. “Tell me what I want to know, and you’ll be on your way.”_

_Jaskier wanted to scream that he hadn’t been asked anything, not that he did know anything - and if he did, it would die with him. Even bitter, even resentful of the Witcher, Jaskier would never do or say anything that would put him in danger._

_A stupid mentality, really, but he stuck with it._

_In a bold - or stupid - moment of defiance, Jaskier smirked and brought his head forward with as much strength as he could muster. A satisfying crunch of bone filled the room, the man staggering back as he held his nose._

_Jaskier doesn’t regret those lashes. Though, he blacked out before they were over._

_When he woke, there was a coolness on his back, water dripping over his wounds and he couldn’t help but flinch from the sensation._

_“Hold still,” a voice said - sweet and young, female. “Egil won’t have you die before he gets what he wants.”_

_Nice to have a name with the face._

_“If you have any humanity, you’d let me die,” Jaskier said, straining his neck to see this girl cleaning his wounds. He caught a head of fiery red hair, pointed ears poking through her locks._

_“If you weren’t trying to prove something, you’d tell him about the Witcher.”_

_With what little purchase he had on the ground, Jaskier pulled himself away from the girl’s touch. He wouldn’t let himself be indebted to her, to this Egil man, and if he dies from infection - a slow and brutal fever - then he would know he died still an ally to Geralt._

_And that mattered more to him than any feelings of abandonment._

_The girl behind him sighed. “Either stop moving or I’ll have someone beat you unconscious.”_

_“Wouldn’t that just make more work for yourself?”_

_“So shut up, for the both of us.”_

_Jaskier hesitated, his mind a rapid stream of thoughts, and eventually, he settled on one: if he were to escape from this place, dying of infection would only make it harder._

_He stopped squirming. And let the girl do her work. Satisfied that he wouldn’t die before Egil could get any information from him, she left Jaskier - strung up like a prize. Skin still hanging in pieces, blood crusted and dried, stomach feeling as though it might eat itself, Jaskier closed his eyes and found a place in the deepest reaches of his mind. A place where the darkness couldn’t reach him, the pain faded away to nothing but the warmth of a summer’s afternoon._

_He held himself there, unwilling to think that he was anywhere else but the large sweeping meadow he so fondly remembered. Roach was chewing on the grass as Geralt peacefully slumbered. Jaskier became startlingly aware of that fact he’d rarely seen the Witcher sleep - and midday, in the wide open. A level of trust Jaskier had never expected to gain._

_Jaskier kept that memory - the sun, the flowers, Geralt’s gentle breaths - until the door opened again, thrusting him back into reality._

_The black haired man, Egil, he assumed, stood before him, lips curled in a grimace. Two other men flanked him, gleams of metal from either of their fists caught Jaskier’s eye. Brass knuckles._

_Jaskier almost laughed - as if those could break him when the whip did not._

_Egil took one step closer to him. “You’re tougher than we expected, bard,” he said. Even with the light to his back, Jaskier can see the twist in his nose, the bone forever crooked._

_“I live to impress,” Jaskier replied. Though he was sure not to let his face show it, his heart was still racing. Pain is pain. No matter how it comes._

_Egil grunts - similar to Geralt. As if reading his mind, Egil says, “Your Witcher’s a hard man to find.”_

_“And you think I can help with that?” Jaskier scoffed. “You know him as well as I do.”_

_“That’s not true. Where is he heading?”_

_“Go fuck yourself.”_

_Brass knuckles connected with the left side of his face. The pain radiated but faded shortly. Jaskier barely winced at it - looking back to Egil with the same blank stare._

_“One more time,” Egil said. “Where can we find Geralt of Rivia?”_

_“One more time,” Jaskier mimicked. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”_

_His right side was hit._

_“You’re wasting your time,” Jaskier said. “I don’t know anything.”_

_There was a punch to his gut, then back to his face - the cycle repeating and repeating - never slowing. Even as Jaskier cried out, even as Egil said nothing, the hits never relented._

_In the end, with two bruised eyes almost swollen shut, more blood than teeth in his mouth, and some shattered ribs, Jaskier was too breathless, throat too torn from cries to speak, even if he wanted to. Egil realised this and left the bloody and broken bard where he hanged._

_“No man is worth this,” Egil said before he left. “And he is no man.”_

No _, Jaskier thought,_ he is better. And he is worth it _._

_The girl didn’t come to clean him. And Jaskier found himself wishing she would - his open wounds ached and he longed for any form of gentle touch._

_The few times he managed to sleep, he dreamed of Geralt. Of his sharp eyes, the curves of his muscles, his gruff voice. He dreamed of it all._

_Jaskier woke one morning - or one night, time had lost all meaning - to the crack of a whip, his eyes shooting open just as it struck his back once more. The old slits hadn’t had the chance to close, and the new ones only force apart his tender skin further._

_He forced his eyes to focus, ready to spit on Egil’s smug face before him. Only, there was no one there. Just the flogger behind him, silent as Jaskier screamed weakly - having no energy to even cry out._

_Despite his resolute, Jaskier found himself begging for Geralt in his mind - as if his inner voice could breach these stone walls, carry on the wind, and find the Witcher wherever he may be, drawing him to Jaskier._

_There are crazier things. But Jaskier knew, within these walls, within these shackles, he was alone - a prisoner. Forgotten by the world. By_ him _._

_The lashes ceased, and the flogger left, but instead of keeping Jaskier in the unbreakable darkness, the door remained open. For the first time since his capture, Jaskier could see what laid beyond the stone room._

_He made out the end of a stairwell, candlelight glow streamed down. There were no guards outside the door, and all he could hear was the disappearing footsteps of the man who whipped him._

_A trap. Clearly._

_But still, Jaskier struggled against the shackles, uncaring that his wrists are still raw and bloody, pulling at them with all his strength. He pulled and pulled and pulled - until the tight restraints drew new blood._

_Every movement caused a fresh trickle of blood down his back, but he didn’t care. Every breath was agony. A fiery flash of pain. And he doesn’t stop trying until his head swims - pain and exhaustion and everything in between left him a shaking mess. Like his very bones had been hollowed._

_The open door was meant to mock him, laughing in his face. He may very well die here and Geralt will be none the wiser._

-

_More lashes and more questions, and Jaskier screamed, he cried, he swore that he knew nothing, but it never relented._

_Jaskier came to realise he had not uttered the Witcher’s name, even as Egil threw it in his face with each visit._

_He started to think that the Witcher had forgotten him in the same way._

-

_Jaskier was dropped, landing harshly on his knees as the shackles were released. His legs had collapsed entirely the moment weight was put on them, his arms going out to catch himself but his wrists were too weak. All of him was too weak._

_Egil stood over him, a smirk on his taunt lips. Jaskier leant back, legs under him, and cradled his arms to his chest. After a moment to collect his breath, he managed to look up. His stare held all his strength, all the hatred and pain that had been boiling the last days - weeks? months? - pooling into his eyes._

_“What?” Jaskier snapped, his voice hoarse from being unused, barely above a whisper._

_Egil shrugged. “You’ve convinced me, bard. You know nothing. So I’ve come to a new course of action.”_

_Jaskier curled and uncurled his fists, testing the limits of his hands. A decent punch would be like fire down his arms, and yet, he was still tempted. He couldn’t care less what Egil was saying, all Jaskier wanted was one good hit. Something in retribution. Anything._

_“I’ve sent messengers out, you see,” Egil continued. “If Geralt of Rivia steps foot in any town or village for the next few hundred miles, he will soon learn what has happened to his bard.”_

_Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath, fighting through mountains of pain to speak. “He won’t come.”_

_“I wouldn’t be so sure.”_

Fool _, Jaskier thought. If the Witcher was to come for him, it would’ve been long ago, before the first crack of the whip. He would’ve been there before Jaskier was even taken._

_“Why?” Jaskier asked. “What do you want with him?”_

_Something dark flashed over Egil’s eyes, sickening and frightening. He leant down, his face far too close for comfort._

_“I’ve killed a Witcher before. And I’ll kill this one. And every disgusting freak of nature until we are free of this plague. You’ve simply made my job easier.”_

_With that, Egil left, the door slamming shut and once more, Jaskier was alone in the dark. He counted it a blessing that he was now on firm ground, able to move, but that only made his mind wonder - why?_

_It took Jaskier more than a few painfully long minutes to stand, his legs trembled with each shuffle of his feet. His muscles screamed in protest but he’d become skilled in ignoring it. All but falling against the wall once he’d reached it, Jaskier searched desperately for the door. He found only hinges - there was no handle._

_Free to walk, but still trapped._

_Jaskier wanted to cry, wanted to let everything go, drain himself of this pain and misery, but he couldn’t. It was all there, rising to the surface but refusing to break through._

-

_The red-haired girl came back once to clean his back, face, and wrists. He never caught her name, she never spoke to him again._

_He doesn’t see or hear another person aside from the few times the door was cracked open, and a tin of water was slid in. Just enough to keep him breathing but still weak, even when he was granted a small piece of bread or fruit._

_Time had slowed to a standstill - he considered night when he slept, and day when he paced agonisingly slowly around the stone room. The lashes down his back unfortunately healed without infection, though his movements became restricted - the scar tissue stiff._

_There came a point where Jaskier realised he no longer existed. Somewhere he had lost himself, and now a shell walked as his body - with his thinning limbs, gaunt face, and scarred pale skin._

_He had nothing holding himself to reality, and so he floated away._

-

_He found himself humming the day it all went down. The day the door opened._

_Jaskier was frozen in his tracks, an animal trying to sense its predator. His eyes hadn’t even begun to adjust to the light when a deep voice pierced the air._

_“Tell Geralt my debt is paid,” the large figure in the doorway said. No doubt another Witcher, judging only by his size. The Witcher turned to leave before hesitating for a moment, from his waistband he unsheathed a dagger, dropping it in the threshold._

_Jaskier assumed he had finally begun to hallucinate, but truthfully, he didn’t care. His legs moved as fast as they could, and he crouched for the blade. It was small, but the sharpness was clear._

_The Witcher had disappeared, leaving Jaskier at the bottom of the stairwell. He saw two options - praying to every god in existence that this was real - he could stay there, slit his own throat before he could waste away, before someone else had the chance. Or, he could fight. Escape from this hell or go down with a knife in his hand._

_He took the latter._

_The first fight was making his way up the stairs. Lifting his unused and aching muscles with each step jostled the wounds on his back but he gritted his teeth, held tighter onto the dagger, and kept moving._

_Jaskier left coated in blood - his own and Egil’s and that of the faceless men that worked for him. He left with a Witcher’s blade and a pouch of coins he looted from Egil’s very body. He wished he’d seen the girl with fire for hair - if only to truly know where her allegiances laid._

_The Witcher had done most of the work for him - dozens of bodies littered the forest house. Jaskier came to realise the basement he was stored in was simply that and the home looked well lived in. He didn’t waste much time pondering on the past._

_Jaskier found a coat, threw it around his shoulders, and left the house before anyone could come for him._

-

“Took about a month to get my lie back,” Jaskier says with a tease of a smile despite himself. He hasn’t met Geralt’s eyes since he began talking, the words stumbling from his mouth like a faucet. “They sold it. Fucking idiots didn’t even get a good price for it.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly, voice shaking under the effort it took to fight back the fierce flame of rage. Even at Jaskier’s briefest descriptions, when he’d disappear into his mind for a few long heartbeats, it sends waves - lashes of fury through the Witcher. The bard notices the tremor, his head shooting up. “If I had known - ”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier interrupts. “So let’s not dwell on it.” 

“No. I can’t - you must know.” Geralt takes a breath. “Never doubt that I wouldn’t come for you - nothing could have stopped me if I’d known.” 

Jaskier looks to him with misty eyes - the wall he’s kept himself tightly behind, to trap himself within, falls right before Geralt’s eyes. And as it crumbles to the ground, everything he’s been hiding, all the pain and fear and _life_ come crashing through. Geralt can see how this has been destroying him - he can see what used to be his bard. 

The liveliness, the _hope_ , everything that made Geralt fall so deeply in love in the first place. 

He sees it all, and sitting there in that forest, at that moment, he makes a promise to himself. An oath he’ll die to keep. As long as Geralt still has breath in his lungs, no one will ever hurt the kind and loving bard. And never again will he abandon Jaskier to fend for himself, never make him feel so worthless because of Geralt’s own shortcomings. He will be there to protect him, defend him as if his sole purpose of existence has changed. 

“Prove it,” Jaskier says bluntly. 

“How?” 

“I don’t know.”

Geralt nods. “I’ll do everything I can.” 

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitches up and Geralt counts that as a blessing. What he wouldn’t do to see the bard smile. 

Jaskier holds his hand into the sky and taking the hint, Geralt stands, takes his hand and pulls him up. With their hands still connected, Geralt can’t help but stare down at Jaskier, his vibrant eyes seeming to shine ever brighter. The light in the dark he’d been missing. 

Acting on impulse, Geralt leans closer, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, encapsulating him. There’s a moment of hesitation but Jaskier all but melts into the hug, his head coming to rest in the crook of Geralt’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Geralt mutters, holding the bard tighter as if he might slip away. 

“Me too.” 

-

Jaskier sits behind Geralt on Roach’s back, delicate hands holding onto the Witcher’s waist as they ride through the countryside. Jaskier still leans back, not wanting to be as close to Geralt. 

It’s still more than Geralt would’ve asked for. Because this means there’s hope for them, after everything, there’s still hope. 

They go back to town for the night, and Jaskier drinks until he can’t see straight, and Geralt lets him - holds him as he cries, laughs with him, keeps him safe. 

-

_I’m more capable than you think_ , Jaskier had said. And with every new hint of his past, every blunt or ready explanation of a piece of the story, Geralt comes to be deeply familiar with that sentence. 

When Jaskier - drunk off his ass - casually drops that he walked for miles before finding any form of civilisation after escaping that hell, and in the light, the shackle scars seem brighter than before, Geralt has to reevaluate how he sees the bard. For a moment, he feels guilty, almost as though he’s taking advantage of Jaskier, but questions further. 

When, for three harrowing days, Jaskier takes off, disappearing into the trees without any supplies - not even his lute. Geralt found him, searched every inch of the surrounding area like a madman until he came across the bard. He was unharmed - malnourished and dehydrated despite the fresh spring he laid near - but safe, _alive_. 

_Why?_ Geralt had asked. _Why’d you leave?_

_I don’t know_ , Jaskier admitted, looking around him as though, with teary eyes, he had no memory of arriving. Geralt doubted he did. _I just did_. 

_Are you okay?_

_I don’t know._

_Do you wish to leave?_

_I don’t know._

Jaskier is capable and incapable - everything and nothing. At least, that’s how he described himself later that night. He exists everywhere, at all times, and then, he simply doesn’t. There is nothing anymore, and there never was. 

Geralt is still trying to understand it all, but he doesn’t need to understand it, only know how to help when it happens. 

When Jaskier is swept up in anger, like a sickness possessing his body, and yells and swears into the sky, into Geralt’s face about everything. From Geralt leaving to his torture being the Witcher’s fault, it all comes pouring out. 

Geralt takes it - if only for the fact that he knows, once the wrath has run its course and tired, Jaskier will apologise. He will beg for forgiveness like it is all he knows how to say, and Geralt, as always, will hold Jaskier and tell him there is nothing to apologise for. And they will be okay again. 

Slowly, though, the anger will change its target. Jaskier won’t ask the trees, the walls, the rivers for forgiveness, but Geralt gives it anyway. He wants no doubt in the bard’s mind that any of this is his fault. 

Some days, Jaskier won’t speak a word - and Geralt lets him ride Roach instead of walking. Some days, Geralt must drag Jaskier away from bars, away from fights, and his eyes are unnervingly wild. 

And those, if not as common, times when Jaskier must be the one to drag Geralt from the dark reaches of his mind, only reiterates how much they both need each other. 

-

It’s the last reaches of the night, where the morning is closer than the evening but the sky is still full of dazzling constellations. Geralt lays down - knowing each shape by name - half in the long grass and half in Jaskier’s lap. 

Slender fingers card through his blonde hair, massaging his scalp, and Geralt finds himself being lured to sleep by the touch alone, closing his eyes. 

To be held so tenderly, treated as something delicate, something _beautiful_ sends Geralt’s heart racing. But that may also be the soft hum of Jaskier’s voice, the only sound despite Roach’s quiet breaths - the only sound Geralt wants to hear as long as he lives. 

Like his voice was slicked with honey, the sweet melody travels on the wind, being carried as far as the heavens - where Geralt is sure it came from. How could he ever say he didn’t enjoy it? Foolish, he was so foolish before. 

He hasn’t heard Jaskier sing since before they parted ways - the bard had claimed he had nothing to sing about, and so Geralt worked tirelessly each day to give him inspiration. And now, he doesn’t dare breath too loud, in fear that his bard might stop. 

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher_

_“O valley of plenty_

_“O valley of plenty_.” 

Witcher’s can’t feel, they’ve sold their emotions - their humanity - or so they say. Geralt is living proof of that lie. Laying here, with the only man that’s ever seen beyond his mask, Geralt is so overcome with it all, he feels utterly human - subjected and controlled by his feelings. 

But he doesn’t mind it. It’s brought him to Jaskier, and as long as they’re together, he will be okay. They both will be. 

“Geralt?” 

“Yes?” 

He opens his eyes to find the bottom of Jaskier’s jaw - his head tilted up so that he stares at the endless night sky. The stars reflect in the pools of his eyes, showering him in their light. Truly magnificent. 

“I want to see the ocean,” Jaskier says. His fingers never stop in Geralt’s hair, and he has to force himself to stay awake. 

“Then I will find you the most beautiful ocean.”

Jaskier hums. “I’ll settle for the nearest, my dear.”

“No, only the best for my love. You deserve it.”

Jaskier looks down, a hint of a smile on his lips. “How could I say no to you?” His hand comes to cup Geralt’s face, his thumb rubbing his skin. 

“You’ve done it many times before,” Geralt notes, earning an offended scoff from Jaskier. “And I love you for it.”

“You what?” 

“I love you.” 

“One more time, darling, I think my hearing is going.” 

Geralt smiles fondly at him. Maneuvering himself so that he sat wholly in Jaskier’s lap, his thighs on either of the bard’s legs, Geralt holds Jaskier’s face in his hands. He brings their foreheads together, lowering his voice for this is only for them to hear, for them to share. 

“I love you,” Geralt says, voice firm as to convince Jaskier of this truth - this, he’s come to understand, is his true purpose. To speak these words each day, solidifying their meaning every day and every night, until Jaskier never doubts it for a heartbeat. 

And at least for this night, Jaskier believes him. “I love you, too.” 

Geralt closes the gap between their lips, pressing into Jaskier with a hunger that can never be satisfied. Jaskier pushes back with as much force - just as greedy. 

Under the glory of the moonlight, Geralt comes apart - Jaskier’s lips and his hands on the Witcher’s waist, tugging him closer, are the only things holding him together. 

These long decades have all led to this. 

Jaskier falls back, taking Geralt with him. The bard’s wandering hands find their way under Geralt’s shirt, lifting it higher and higher until Geralt has to break their kiss to take it off. 

Breathless, Jaskier drinks in the Witcher’s body, every scar, every curve of his muscles. And, like he needs it to survive, he pulls up, hands wrapping around Geralt’s neck to bring him down and kisses him again. The moment Geralt brings his lips onto Jaskier’s neck, the bard tilts his head on instinct, inviting him further. 

He leaves sloppy kisses, too eager to worship every inch of Jaskier’s skin, to show his love when words fail him. And Jaskier is just as desperate. His hands never stop moving, going from clutching Geralt’s hair to roaming across his body, to tugging at his waistband. 

Geralt pauses in his glorifying of Jaskier, his hooded eyes looking up at the bard - asking silently. 

They hadn’t reached this part yet - Jaskier was always hesitant, as if there was an inch of him that Geralt wouldn’t adore. 

But now, Jaskier has never looked more sure. His voice is quiet but firm. “Yes. Geralt, _please_.” 

Geralt gives Jaskier everything he wants and takes all that he gives. With the protecting moon and stars, they, completely and happily, give themselves over to the other. There is nothing hidden between them, nothing the other can’t see. And with every touch of lip on skin, that once delicate balance, that fragile glass tether between them, strengths to diamond - to an unshatterable stone. 

They are one. A Witcher and his bard, a bard and his Witcher. Inseparable. In love. Finally, at peace. 

-

Jaskier wished to see the sea, and so Geralt began planning immediately. It doesn’t take much time or effort, a few days of preparation later and they’re off - Roach heavily loaded with gear and Jaskier’s hands around Geralt’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder. There’s endless chatter coming from his mouth and at no moment does Geralt ever want him to stop. 

It fills the silence as they head west. While Jaskier had requested the nearest piece of the ocean, there’s one Geralt has in mind - the most magnificent sight he’s ever seen, and all he wants is to see it take Jaskier’s breath away as it did him. 

The first day of riding is fairly uneventful - they found a village late in the night because “ _I want a soft pillow, Geralt, you’re built like a rock_ ,” and so Geralt didn’t stop until he had found an adequate inn. 

Geralt already collapsed onto the bed as Jaskier drifts by, saying, “I’m having a bath.” 

The Witcher grunts in response, his eyes slipping closed on their own accord until Jaskier’s voice floats from the bathroom. 

“And you’re coming.” 

Geralt is on his feet in a blink, and once the bath is full of warm soapy water, Jaskier ends up between Geralt’s legs, leaning forward as water washes over his back. 

Geralt has come to understand how seeing the scars and touching them are two very distinct shows of trust. But Geralt cherishes either one. His fingers are feather-light as he runs them over Jaskier’s skin, tracing the uneven terrain of his back. Jaskier neither flinches nor relaxes into the touch, but his mouth runs off as a distraction. 

“What did you think of that band playing?” Jaskier asks. 

Truthfully, Geralt hadn’t paid any mind to it, more concerned with the man eyeing them as they entered town - a festival of sorts on its last leg. But he knows what Jaskier wants to hear. 

“The singer was a bit rusty, wasn’t she?” Geralt says, massaging the bard’s shoulders where he knows they tend to ache. 

“Exactly what I thought.” Jaskier lets out a small groan of pleasure, his head rolling back like he’d lost the ability to hold it up. He leans back into Geralt’s hold, giving him the hint to press harder into his skin. 

Geralt smiles to himself. He asks, “Why didn’t you go up there and upstage her?” 

Jaskier chuckles. “Do you want to stay here until she performs again? I’ll happily show off.” 

“I know you will, love, but the ocean is waiting.” 

“You’re right. I suppose I’ll let the girl have her pride.”

“As humble as ever.” 

Geralt plants a kiss on the crook of Jaskier’s neck, leaving a trail across his shoulders, down his spine as far as he can reach. Jaskier lets out a soft breath, hand coming up to tangle itself in Geralt’s hair. 

“Someone must be around here,” the bard says.

Geralt pauses, lips parted as they hover less than an inch above Jaskier’s scarred skin. “What are you saying, my love?” 

“Nothing. You’re as humble as I.” 

“That doesn’t mean much.” 

Jaskier scoffs, though Geralt can see his upturned mouth, and as if reading his mind, Jaskier turns his head, bringing their lips together. 

Jaskier breaks the kiss apart, staring into Geralt’s golden eyes with an unreadable expression. 

“What?” Geralt asks softly. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier mutters, his warm breath whispering against Geralt’s cheek. “Just checking this is real. That you’re real.” 

“I’m here. For the rest of this life and the next, and whatever lies beyond.” 

“Have you always been this soppy?” Jaskier teases, shifting back around so he rests against Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt wraps his arms around him, pulling him tighter and closer. “Only for you.” 

“Good.” 

They stay like that, until the water has turned cold and their skin has shrivelled like prunes, and still, it’s a struggle to tear themselves apart from one another. If only for a few minutes before they tumble into bed, limbs tangling together as if they were to break apart, the world would never let them back together again. 

-

The next day of travelling is far more eventful. Jaskier sits upfront on Roach’s back, her reins in his hands, and Geralt’s patient instructions in his ear. 

Geralt didn’t know what had overcome him when he told Jaskier to lead - Roach is his horse and _only_ his horse. And yet, he trusts Jaskier as much as he trusts himself. 

Huh. He hadn’t expected that. 

“If you hold any tighter, my dear, you’re going to rip my tunic,” Jaskier says offhandedly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. 

Geralt unclenches his hands, just realising he been clutching onto Jaskier with dear life. Maybe he doesn’t trust him as much. 

“And, before you say anything, it's yours,” the bard adds. 

“I thought it seemed too big.” Geralt doesn’t bother feigning annoyance. Though he isn’t sure why but seeing Jaskier in his clothes fills him with a sense of self-satisfaction. He thinks it may be drawn from the fact very little things are wholly his. Roach, his swords, and Jaskier - the bard that could have anything, anyone he wanted, and yet, he’s here with a Witcher. 

“I would say you could wear one of mine, but they’re far too delicate for those muscles.” 

“I could always try,” Geralt suggests. 

Jaskier chuckles. “And then buy me a new shirt once you tear it?” 

“Once I get some new pants.” 

“My shirt first.” 

“Don’t you think I deserve something nice?” 

“Of course. That’s why you have me.” 

Geralt opens his mouth to give a jab back, unable to contain his smile at Jaskier’s shimmering eyes, but a sound in the trees steals his attention. A snap of a branch. It’s not an animal, he’s sure of that. 

Jaskier doesn’t need to see the sudden seriousness on Geralt’s face, feeling his body tense up behind him. He drops his voice down to barely a whisper as he asks, “What is it?” 

“Pull her reins,” is all he says. 

Jaskier does, and Roach comes to a stop, her ears twitching back and forth. 

Geralt’s keen eyes scan the surrounding forest, peering between the leaves. Bandits, it must be, the only reason why humans would want to be out here is to be far from the reaches of the law. 

In a fluid motion, Geralt lands on the ground, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s leg in reassurance as he passes. He draws his sword, the comforting weight in his hand fills him with determination. 

“Show yourself,” he calls. 

“Or don’t, either one is preferable,” Jaskier says behind him. 

Geralt casts a quick glance to the bard, unsure whether to smile or roll his eyes. 

With a rustle of leaves, from either side of the path emerges a group of people, no more than half a dozen, all armed with a collection of bows, swords, and spears. A woman, short-cropped hair like a fire, showcasing her pointed ears, steps forward. She stops a mere few meters from Geralt. 

A silver sword hangs loosely in her hand. Stolen. Looted from a body, he’s sure of it. 

Her voice is sweet like sugar but laced with poison. “Sorry to interrupt your journey, Witcher.” 

“Cut the bullshit, elf,” Geralt retorts. “Let’s get to it. Either leave us and carry on your way or - ” he twirls his sword for emphasis - “this will end very badly for you.” 

“Geralt,” he hears Jaskier mutter, but he pays no mind to it. 

The elf’s eyes dart to the bard, something sparks in the emerald shine - her lips curling in a tight grimace. Geralt can’t tell what she’s thinking, but he doesn’t really care. 

Having to kill these people will really put a damper on his and Jaskier’s trip. 

“Hand over your things and this will end nicely for us all,” the elf retorts. 

“ _Geralt_.” 

“Not now, Jaskier.” 

The elf tilts her head. “Jaskier? Good to know. But I’d turn around, Witcher.” 

Begrudgingly, he listens, barely a turn of his head but it shows him enough. Silently - _how did Geralt not hear_ \- Jaskier had left Roach’s back, forcefully or not, and stood with a rapier to his throat. A man almost twice his size holding him still, Jaskier doesn’t bother struggling. 

Geralt grunts. This became a lot harder, any of his actions now have to take into account for Jaskier’s safety. 

“You can still surrender,” Geralt says, keeping the attention on himself as he slowly lowers his free hand. 

Jaskier still carries his dagger, he knows this and is well experienced with the little lessons Geralt has given him. Geralt’s hand is hung against his leg, his finger tapping. 

_One_ , his plan is riding on the fact that Jaskier is looking. Though, he always seems to be. 

_Two_ , and that there’s no one else hidden in the woods. 

_Three_ , Geralt swings. 

The elf matches it, grunting in surprise at his strength. He pushes her back - cutting an arrow dead in the middle as it whirls past. 

Spears and blades and arrows come his way, and he strikes them all down with swift ease. He takes the archers first - but, as he assumed, more fighters flood from the trees. A group of bandits, a tribe of them, thinking they can take on a Witcher. 

Geralt hurls his sword around, unseeing and uncaring of who he strikes, but it feels like an unending army of them. They encircle him, but he is faster, can twist and swing quicker, as easy as breathing. 

He never relents. Never slows because he doesn’t know how. A blade slashes at his thigh and still, Geralt doesn’t so much as blink. 

Until a twirl of brown hair catches his eye, a shirt far too baggy, and blade gleaming in the sunlight. 

_Jaskier_. 

Geralt hesitates, finding the bard holding the rapier - once held to his neck - comfortably in his hand, twirling it back and forth as he strikes bandit after bandit. He’s more than agile - a dancer, with a sword and his feet scarcely touching the ground. 

Geralt doesn’t know where to look. Though there’s still an onslaught before him, Jaskier is there - _Jaskier is fighting with a rapier_ and he is most definitely not a beginner. 

Just as Geralt thought the bard couldn’t surprise him anymore. 

Jaskier slays opponent after opponent, rapier stained with blood. All Geralt can think is how beautiful his bard looks, face frowned in concentration, blue eyes swirling with a deep kind of fury. 

In a breath, there is no one left, except - as Geralt lays eyes on her - the trembling elven girl. The leader of this pitiful group of bandits. Thieves. Killers. 

He’s on her in a few large strides, sword arm poised to come slashing down on her and she does nothing to defend herself. Only flinches, closing her eyes as she waits for the blow. 

Except, it never comes. 

Her green eyes open in shock, her breaths coming in ragged lengths and Geralt shares her confusion - glancing down at the blade that lines his throat. A simple flick of the wrist could kill him. 

Following the bloody rapier, he finds Jaskier. His piercing eyes are filled with a coldness, a quiet rage that Geralt hasn’t seen in a long, long time. The bard is breathless but he stands true, determined. 

“Not her,” Jaskier says through clenched teeth. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Not - ” the blade pushes deeper - “her.” 

Geralt regards Jaskier. His sword clatters to the ground as he throws it. 

Jaskier lowers his blade, immediately throwing his gaze to the elf. A silent conversation passes through them before she spins on her heel, running back where she came as if her fallen comrades mean nothing to her. 

The bard lets out a sigh, ravaging his body as his energy drains in a moment. 

“Jaskier, what the _fuck_?”

“It’s a long story.” 

“Start talking then,” Geralt snaps. “Do you know her?” 

Jaskier’s eyes sweep over the fallen bodies, blood pooling and mixing with dirt. There’s a crimson stain on his shirt, though it doesn’t seem to be his own. His free hand is trembling, while his other is steady with the rapier. 

His eyes have darkened in a way that throws spikes of worry to Geralt - an instinctual fear as he watches his bard slip away into a dark reach of his mind. 

But Jaskier blinks it away. His gaze softens once again. 

“Kind of,” Jaskier says finally. “Can - can we go somewhere? Not in the open.” 

“Of course.” Geralt can never say no to his bard, and even with the millions of questions in his head, Jaskier’s comfort is his first priority. 

He supposes he should be used to this sense of being a step behind the bard. 

Jaskier still remains frozen in place. Geralt closes the short gap between them, cupping the smaller man’s face easily with his hands. 

“I’m not mad, not at you,” Geralt says softly. 

“Let’s just go.” 

Geralt nods. He collects his sword and Jaskier’s free hand into his own and leads them back to Roach. To her credit, the horse had hardly spooked, calming completely as she sees Geralt approach. 

A body lays near her, his gut drenched red and Jaskier’s dagger is still embedded in his flesh. Jaskier doesn’t make a move to take it so neither does Geralt. The bard seems happier with his new rapier, anyway. He secures it to Roach’s saddle. 

Climbing onto Roach’s back, Geralt leans down and takes Jaskier’s hand, pulling him up. It seems more muscle memory than choice that Jaskier wraps his arms around the Witcher’s waist, fingers curling into his shirt. Roach takes off, dodging the obstacles on the ground. The gleam of a sword tempts Geralt to loot the bodies. All these weapons and belongings could make them rich. 

But Jaskier is shrinking in on himself and Geralt _knows_ it’s that elf’s fault. Wherever the two know each other from, Geralt can only assume - and where his mind has leapt, he prays to every god he’s wrong. 

Once the bloodshed is far behind them, Jaskier shifts closer to Geralt, saying softly into his ear, “I might have taken some lessons before we met again.” 

“In sword fighting?” 

“You’re always saying I need to know how to defend myself.” 

“A heads up would have been nice, love,” Geralt grumbles. Knowing Jaskier was capable of _that_ would’ve soothed some anxieties he had whilst travelling together. 

“I like your face when I surprise you,” Jaskier says. “And it never came up in conversation.” 

“It could have,” Geralt points out. He pulls Roach’s reins and she turns into an offbeat track, he doesn’t know where it leads but anywhere secluded will work. “Dinner was delicious tonight, dear, oh, and by the way, I can use a sword. See? Easy.” 

“Rapier, not sword. There’s a difference.” 

“Not the point.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Jaskier says in a mocking voice. “You looked fabulous out there, by the way, I can use a rapier.” 

“Was that so difficult?” 

“Absolutely dreadful.” 

-

The colour of the fire is no match for that elf’s hair, and Geralt finds himself stocking it with more force than necessary. The crackling of wood fills the gentle silence, and as Geralt settles next to his bard - shoulder touching shoulder, knee bumping against knee - it is much needed. 

Jaskier pulls his sleeves as far over his hands as they will go, hiding what Geralt already knows lays on his wrists. Not from Geralt but from himself. The Witcher has the urge to wrap his arms around him, but he knows Jaskier will be feeling the sting of the lashes - a phantom pain that won’t relent. 

“She was there,” Jaskier says all of a sudden, eyes bearing into the flames. “She worked with - for _him_.” 

A brief pause. “Why spare her?” Geralt has always longed to be the one to kill those men, to be there when the light drained from their eyes - he wanted revenge on Jaskier’s behalf. And he was unwittingly so near it. 

The only thing stopping him from hunting that elf down was Jaskier’s voice, acting as a physical weight. 

“It wasn’t by choice, I don’t think. And she was gentle when she cleaned my wounds. I owed it to her.” 

Geralt takes a controlled breath, careful to keep his face and voice neutral. “If that’s how you feel.” 

Jaskier turns his head barely an inch, just enough for Geralt to see the glint in his eyes. 

“You don’t feel the same.” Not a question. 

“What I feel doesn’t matter right now.”

“Humour me,” Jaskier says lightly. “I like to know what you’re thinking.” 

Geralt was ready to divert the conversation, afraid of saying the wrong thing. But Jaskier reaches across, taking Geralt’s hand in his own and interlocks their fingers. He squeezes tightly, reassuring the Witcher. 

“Okay,” Geralt says. “I'm thinking that you should’ve let me kill her.” 

Jaskier hums. 

He continues, “Anyone who played a role in your torture, whether active or passive, doesn’t deserve life.” 

“I see.” Jaskier pauses, his grip of Geralt fluctuates rapidly, squeezing and releasing as waves of memories wash over him. “You won’t harm her?”

“Not unless you want me to.” 

Jaskier smiles. In the firelight it makes his face glow, his blue eyes look almost golden in the reflection of the flames. He runs his free hand through his hair, releasing a deep breath. 

“I had wondered what happened to her,” Jaskier admits. “I hoped she wasn’t dead.” 

“She’s far from that. Seems to be doing well for herself … well, _was_.” 

“We definitely messed that up.” 

Geralt gives something just short of a laugh. Inappropriate, sure, but he sees a hint of a smile on Jaskier’s lips, even as he fought it back. 

Jaskier says, “To be fair, she was the one that thought robbing a Witcher was a bright idea.” 

“Let’s hope she doesn’t make the same mistake twice.” 

“Let’s.” Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder and is silent for a long moment. At last, he says, “Don’t think I don’t know you’re injured.” 

“It’s barely a scratch,” Geralt says, turning his leg so that Jaskier could see it. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“You should’ve told me.”

“It seems we both need to tell each other more.”

Jaskier laughs, the sweet sound like music to Geralt’s ears. “You’ve got me there.”

-

“We don’t have to continue,” Jaskier says, his head on top Geralt’s outstretched arm - he’s lost all feeling in it but as long as Jaskier seems comfortable there, he won’t move. 

“Don't let today discourage you.” 

“It just seems more trouble than it’s worth.” 

Geralt pulls him closer. “Trust me, this is nothing compared to what’s waiting for us.” 

Jaskier closes his eyes, the embers of the fire and Geralt’s body are plentiful to keep him warm and lure him to sleep. His breaths even out before he says another word, body relaxing ever more. Geralt takes a moment to adore his bard, every line on his face smoothing out in a way they never do awake, before letting his own eyes slip closed. 

-

The sun rises and falls, Roach’s hooves are steady on the ground, and nothing quite like the bandit attack happens again. But plenty to serve as inspiration for Jaskier’s songs. 

That makes Geralt’s heart race dangerously fast. _He’s writing songs again_ , and Geralt swears that he’s died and gone to heaven, or some god has blessed him to bear witness to this living angel. With a voice as sweet as honey, just as smooth, the words flow from his tongue as natural as breathing. 

Geralt watches him and knows he looks like a dumbstruck idiot - and if anyone else were to see him like this, they’d never taken him seriously as a Witcher again. But Jaskier sees it, his cheeks flushing a faint red, and his fingers stumble slightly on the lute strings. 

Jaskier sings songs of hope, adventures, anger, heartbreak, love, and everything in between. All with equal amounts of passion and strength, all with Geralt to judge. Jaskier never performs a song for the public without Geralt’s approval - though the Witcher doesn’t think his opinion holds that much weight. Some songs are reserved for only them, though, and as they continue their travels, it becomes a language that only they can understand. 

When Jaskier strums a sorrowful tune, making the air heavy, Geralt knows to hold him tighter that night. And when Geralt asks for a particular song, Jaskier sings it with a soft and kind voice to soothe his Witcher. 

By the time they reach the ocean, Jaskier and Geralt can communicate solely in music and hums. 

Jaskier is in the middle of a new song, unable to find the right words to describe Geralt’s golden eyes, when he finally catches onto the salty spray in the air. His voice falters, fingers still moving for the next chord, and he lets out a breath - a gasp. 

Roach comes to rest on the edge of a cliff, a trail leading to the beach below, and Geralt almost directs his mare to go down it but Jaskier is dropping down before he can. 

He walks forward, in a trance, and stands at the very edge of the cliff. 

The ocean lays before him, stretching as far as he can see, shining like a thousand stars until the bright sun. Waves crash like thunder, but they’re clear - almost as though the water doesn’t exist. 

Geralt comes to wrap an arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him close, unable to contain his smile at the bard’s stunned face. 

“Told you it was magnificent,” Geralt says, laughing softly as he watches Jaskier try to form words and fumble. 

Geralt could stay there forever, the morning sun breaking over the horizon enough to warm the brisk air, holding onto his love - love that transcended time and distance and destiny itself - without a care in the world. And, in this precious, delicate moment, he starts to think that life will give him this peace and let it last forever. 

Though, life decides to give him something better. 

Jaskier breaks off in a dead sprint, silently slipping away from Geralt’s side and races for the track leading to the beach. Like he’s being carried on the wind, his feet scarcely touch the ground as he flies. 

It takes too long for Geralt’s mind to catch up, caught up with watching his retreating frame, but once it does, the Witcher is chasing after his bard like schoolboys. Roach surely follows, at her own pace. 

He lets Jaskier win, of course, relishing in the way the wind catches his laughter, bringing it back to him. Geralt follows suit as Jaskier begins stripping - shucking off his shoes and discarding his shirt to the sand. 

Jaskier goes head first into the icy water once it’s deep enough, emerging soaked but grinning from ear to ear. He shakes his head, spraying Geralt. 

“You’re not a dog,” Geralt moans, holding up a hand. 

“But I am your bitch.”

Geralt isn’t sure whether he’s choking in sheer shock or the wave that slammed into his open mouth. But either way, he can’t breathe and Jaskier is almost pissing himself laughing. 

When Geralt finally catches his breath, Jaskier is still beaming, the water lapping at his waist. 

He quirks an eyebrow, which Geralt rolls his eyes at, before turning, heading deeper. For maybe the first time, Geralt isn’t caught breathless at the sight of Jaskier’s back. He follows wordlessly, wading through the water until the waves can’t break and they’re chest-deep. 

Jaskier’s head is bobbing above the water but it’s clear in his eyes that he wants to go further. 

“Do you know how to swim?” Geralt asks, realising he should’ve thought of this long ago. 

Jaskier’s eyes are on the horizon, seeing far beyond the ocean. “That’s why I have you here.” 

Geralt chuckles. 

“How far do you think it goes?” Jaskier asks. 

“We’ll have to see.”

Jaskier turns to him. Geralt's only thought is that the ocean is nothing compared to his eyes, nothing could be as dazzling, as deep, as enchanting. 

“We’d need a boat,” Jaskier says. “And I can’t sail.”

“I’m not hearing any problems. We can buy a ship and you’ll learn quickly enough.”

A wave crashes behind Geralt. It’s deafening but Jaskier doesn’t so much as blink, his stare - as intense and heavy as ever - remains fixed on the Witcher. 

“Don’t say things just because I would like it,” he says firmly. “You have a choice here, too.” 

“I know.” Geralt rests his hands on Jaskier’s waist - and, _fuck_ , he never wants to be not touching his bard, always needing him near. “I want to see the world, and I choose to do it with you.” 

“It’ll be horrible to organise.”

“Oh, absolute hell.”

“And I don’t know how we’d bring Roach.”

“She can swim.”

“The money will be hard to come by.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says, dragging out his name. “Let’s just have foolish hope it’ll all turn out okay. Okay?”

Jaskier sighs, his head hanging to rest against Geralt’s chest, the worries and anxieties leaving him. “Okay,” he mutters into Geralt’s skin. 

Geralt lets the moment rest, the water holding them, keeping them safe until the Witcher says, “I was serious about whether you can swim or not. The last thing I need to worry about is if you’ve fallen overboard.”

Jaskier scoffs. “If I fall overboard, the whole ocean will hear of it. _But_ , if by some curse you don’t, I can stay afloat long enough until you notice my absence.”

“That’s good enough.”

“You say that as if you wouldn’t just sink to the bottom of the sea if you fell in.”

“I wouldn’t fall in,” Geralt counters. 

“Nor would I,” Jaskier says. “Hypothetically, though, you’d sink like a rock.”

“Then, I guess I’d have to wait for you to come rescue me.”

“And get myself drowned? No thanks. I’ll leave you for the sirens.”

-

The sun is setting and Jaskier starts to wonder whether this time, truly, he has died. A strangely reoccurring thought - that he has passed or always was dead. Either way, this is what his heaven will be. 

It doesn’t fill him with the same sense of dread that it once did, maybe he’s grown indifferent to the thought of death. This is warm, safe. He’s resting between Geralt’s legs and the Witcher has his arms wrapped around his chest. 

He is safe. 

And that’s a feeling he so rarely, truly feels. 

Jaskier’s hair is still damp from the ocean - they’ve spent most of the day in there - and his clothes are drying on a log nearby. Geralt assures him that almost no one knows of this section of the beach and that they are safe from prying eyes. 

He finds that he doesn’t care. That’s another new feeling. This kind of detachment he settles into from time to time. Jaskier knows where everything new about him formed - in that dark, cold stone room. It took everything he was and twisted it, some pieces more than others. 

Despite it all, the reasons to leave, the reasons to give up, Geralt remains. Steady. Constant. A constant that he hadn’t allowed himself to rely on to begin with, waiting for the other shoe to drop and the Witcher to pack his things once more. 

That must mean there is still _something_ that is purely Jaskier left in him. 

“What are you thinking about?” Geralt asks, breaking Jaskier from his wandering mind. 

“Too many things,” Jaskier answers honestly. He’s grown too tired to lie to his Witcher. Too worn from keeping everything to himself. 

“Name one.” 

“Us.”

“Name another.”

Jaskier hesitates. “What we were.”

“Hmm.” _You gotta give me more than that_. 

Jaskier drags an absentminded finger over Geralt’s bare thigh, trailing higher and higher in hopes of distracting him. Geralt simply grunts again, shifting Jaskier with his legs. 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Jaskier says begrudgingly, “if I’m enough for you. I’m mortal and you’re _you_.”

The words seem to fall easier as he’s not looking at Geralt. Only feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, using _that_ tone - the purposefully soft one, like he’s speaking to an injured animal. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s injured, but his voice is soothing nonetheless. “I’m the one that’s not enough. You know what they say about Witchers - ”

“And we both know it’s utter horseshit,” Jaskier interrupts. 

“ - I can't give you the life you deserve. A normal life.” 

“Really, Geralt, _that’s_ what you think I’m after? After all this time?” 

“I - _what_?”

Jaskier twists his body around, still between Geralt’s legs but able to face him now. If only to emphasise his point, Jaskier cups Geralt’s cheeks, squeezing them together. The pure confusion in his golden eyes draws attention from Jaskier’s obvious scars. 

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. “You know that right?” 

“Yes, but why in specific?” 

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier continues. “You really think that I saw you, brooding in that dark corner, and thought to myself, ah yes, I’ll settle down with this man, have some kids, and die of old age?”

“Jask - ”

“No, listen to me.” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s face more, turning his lips into a pout. The Witcher doesn’t fight it. “My life was boring before I met you. I wouldn’t take it back for the world. I love you and every day I spend with you.” 

Geralt’s eyes, bright like fine honey and as deep as the sea, flash with a swirling mixture of emotions that makes Jaskier wonder how Witcher’s were ever said to be numb creatures. 

Geralt reaches up, taking Jaskier’s hands into his own, and lowers them. His mouth is pulling into a thin line, an attempt to hold back the words threatening to spill. It’s silent for a long while, too long, and Jaskier starts to wonder whether he should have stayed quiet. If he said too much. 

Jaskier bites his tongue. The sharp pressure keeping his breathing steady. Geralt’s hands slid down Jaskier’s arms, over his wrists - _and the room is so cold_ \- following the length of his forearms until jumping to his waist. Geralt has always had some need to hold Jaskier there - and his hands fit so perfectly around his sides. 

“You could have so much more,” Geralt whispers. Nervous in a way that unsettles Jaskier. “Anything and anyone you wanted. Why me?” 

Jaskier suddenly finds that his tongue refuses to work. And his mind is wiped blank. _There is no one thing_ , he wants to say. _I cannot name them all in my lifetime_. 

So instead, he all but falls forward, his lips slamming against Geralt’s. His mouth opens on instinct, inviting the bard in. Jaskier brings his hand into Geralt’s hair, tangling his fingers into his soft locks. 

Geralt _moans_ and it drives Jaskier wild. With a desperate hunger, Jaskier drives forward, pushing against the Witcher like he’s the only stable force in his life. 

“I can show you,” Jaskier mutters between kisses. “Let me prove it.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. A question. A plea. 

And Jaskier does all he can to answer it. He worships every inch of Geralt, pushing and pushing and pushing until they fall back into the sand - Jaskier straddling Geralt’s chest. 

His lips are parted as he stares up at Jaskier, breathless. And Jaskier melts. 

This is all Jaskier could ever want. It makes everything that ever has or will happen worth it - every lash, every punch can’t compare to the heat gathering in his gut. 

Jaskier will take it all again, knowing that this is how they end up will make it all survivable.

-

It took Geralt two days to work up the courage to ask Jaskier once the idea had formed in his mind. And it took Jaskier less than a second to agree. 

“Of course. I’d love to meet her,” Jaskier says, beaming as the music swells around them. 

It was someone’s birthday or anniversary or something, and Jaskier had been hired to play. Now, his first break after hours, his voice is rough and his hands shake from exertion as he takes Geralt’s ale and drinks it. 

Geralt smiles. “Ciri will love you, I promise.” 

“Everyone loves me.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, taking a long drink. “Well, _of course_ , I’m nervous to meet the girl bound to you. She’s important to you.” 

“Not as important as you,” Geralt assures, taking the ale back. 

“How far is she?” Jaskier asks. A bead of sweat drips down his temple, Geralt reaches to wipe it away. 

“Not far. I saw some of her men in town. It - it gave me the idea.” 

Jaskier gives a soft grin - though he hasn’t talked much of Ciri to him, the bard knew of the special place in his heart that forever belongs to the girl. Well, young woman, now. 

“Can’t wait. But for now, please stop looking as though you want to kill everyone here,” Jaskier says. “It’s killing the mood, dear.”

“No promises.” Geralt’s eyes flicker behind Jaskier. “You better get back to it, they’re starting to miss you.”

Jaskier steals one last drink before heading back into the roaring crowd, lute in his hands and his voice as brilliant as ever. Geralt finds that his face has softened, watching his bard on the dance floor like it’s his home fills Geralt with an almost sickening wave of adoration. This is where Jaskier best belongs, with a loving crowd and music all around him. 

Dancing and singing and playing, Jaskier is so full of life it compensates for Geralt’s stony outward nature. 

When the party finally dies down - the sun peeking above the horizon - Geralt will lead a stumbling Jaskier to their room, though he is stumbling just as much. They will fall onto the bed of their inn room, stripped bare and tangled together, and sleep peacefully until last noon. 

Roach will be waiting and will knock Geralt with her snout when he finally greets her. They will laugh at each other’s headaches, climb onto her back, and race from the village, Ciri and her kingdom in the distance. 

-

The castle is as breathtaking as ever, tall and powerful. Jaskier leans his head as far back as it goes, ignoring Geralt and the arguing guards. He thinks he spies something in a vast window that’s staring down at them. But before he can think twice about that, he hears Geralt’s “ _Hmm_ ” of distaste turning to anger. 

As quick as ever, Jaskier plants himself next to Geralt, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“What’s the hold up?” he asks the guards, noting their adjusting grip on their sword hilts. 

The guard on the left scoffs. “As we’ve told him, the queen won’t have an audience with the likes of you.” 

“Why don’t we bring her down and see what she says,” Jaskier suggests, his fingers digging deeper into Geralt’s skin when he feels him shift. The last thing they need right now is the Witcher losing his temper. 

The right guard says, “Her Majesty is too busy.”

“She’s not here, is she?” Jaskier glances between the guards.

“I didn’t say that.” 

“No, I did. But I’m not wrong.”

From the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees the tease of a smile on Geralt’s lips. The guards look to each other, bound to their duty but not prepared to fight with a Witcher. 

The guard on the left opens his mouth to speak again when a voice pierces the air, giving everyone a shock. 

“ _Geralt_.” 

And Geralt is in the dirt, hair as white as a cloud covering him, a face burrowing into the crock of his neck. He wraps his arms around the girl, his smile brighter than Jaskier had seen brought by anyone other than him. 

Standing awkwardly to the side, Jaskier watches on as Geralt and the young queen hug on the ground. None of the guards seem particularly bothered by the actions of their monarch, and Jaskier gets the feeling this is kingdom has grown vastly since the last time they stepped foot in it. 

Eventually and with much difficulty, Geralt stands, the girl still attached around his waist. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, resting his hand on the girl’s head. “This is Ciri. Ciri, meet Jaskier.” 

Ciri lifts her head quickly at the mention of Jaskier’s name. She has a wild grin on her face and her emerald eyes are brighter than he thought possible. 

If he hadn’t seen her mother, Jaskier would be seriously wondering if Geralt was her father. Geralt and Pavetta would make a translucent child, so Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about that. 

“Jaskier,” Ciri says, the word rolling off her tongue so naturally, he wonders if she’s rehearsed this. Though, they didn’t send word of their arrival. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“He talked about me?” Jaskier glances to Geralt, who adamantly doesn’t want to look at the bard. 

“Many, _many_ times.” Ciri laughs. It sounds like pure light, everything good in this world embodied in this young woman. 

“All good things, I hope.” 

“We don’t need to hear them all,” Geralt interrupts. 

“Oh, we do,” Ciri says. “But later, for now, let’s go inside. Fadrird, Credri, make sure their horse is well looked after.” 

The guards share a look, a flash of displeasure crossing their eyes, but they wordlessly bow, taking Roach to the stables. 

Thankful for the distraction, Geralt finally meets Jaskier’s gaze - his eyes trying to give a weak attempt of a warning that does nothing but make Jaskier smirk. 

Ciri leads them through the courtyard, lacing her arm with Geralt’s and, with a smile, offers her other arm to Jaskier. He takes it happily, unable to not notice her muscular arms. 

He’s now ninety percent sure Ciri isn’t somehow Geralt’s. 

Her voice is sweet as she and Geralt chatter away - catching up from the years gone by. It’s flawless, the way they fit back together, like no time has passed at all. For a moment, Jaskier tries to slip away from the conversation, take in the grand castle they’re entering rather than listen. But Ciri is as interested in him as she is with Geralt.

Questions of his life, how he came to be a bard, of all people why did he choose Geralt to follow, questions about everything come his way. And he answers them all without hesitation. Anyone that has won over Geralt is in his good book - minus a certain sorcerer. 

“I’m happy to see you and Geralt are on good terms again,” Ciri says. “He told me of your… departure.” 

“Did he now?” Jaskier asks. 

“He was very remorseful, I never heard the end of it all. How’d you come to find each other?”

Jaskier falters, almost stumbling over his own feet. He suddenly finds Ciri’s standing too close, her skin too hot against his, and his heart skips too many beats. 

Geralt, his brilliant “ _unfeeling_ ” mind knowing Jaskier’s, seamlessly steps in. “It’s a long story. Are you any closer to finding a King to rule with you?” 

Ciri chuckles. “And you’re still not funny. Geralt, I’m disappointed.”

“Fine, or a queen?” 

“Let’s not talk about my love life anymore.” 

Geralt pulls her into a conversation about gods know what, sparing the occasional glance to Jaskier as he regains himself. It’s easier now, to draw himself away from those resurfacing memories than it had been. 

And when he’s fully coherent again, he finds that they’re deep into the palace. Portraits and sculptures line the never-ending hallways. 

Jaskier takes it all in, unable to contain his awe. He catches Geralt’s gaze over Ciri’s head - a warm smile on his lips. Jaskier smiles back, slowly tuning back into what Ciri is saying. 

“ - moment, I need to speak with some people.”

She stops before an open door, slipping herself free from the men’s arms, and goes inside. Geralt is at Jaskier’s side in a heartbeat, a hand coming to rest on his arm. 

Before the Witcher can say anything, Jaskier speaks. “I love her.”

A sense of worry leaves Geralt. “I told you so. And she loves you, I can tell.” 

“Little lion cub, indeed. I can’t imagine being so young and ruling.” 

“It is her destiny.” 

“ _You_ were her destiny.” 

“Once.” A servant passes by and Geralt lowers his voice, a purr in Jaskier’s ear. “But that’s changed now.” 

“That’s not how destiny works,” Jaskier says. 

“Then I’ll change it, bend it to my will. Ciri doesn’t need me anymore, I’m all yours.” 

Jaskier is about to retort but the said young queen chose that moment to return - none the wiser to the conversation she interrupted. 

“Shall we?” she asks, gesturing further down the hall. 

Now, Geralt stands between the bard and the girl, and Jaskier is thankful for it. He presses himself against Geralt’s shoulder, walking as close to him as he can without tripping over each other’s feet. 

Jaskier can’t help but feel inadequate compared to Ciri - the queen, the girl Geralt was destined to find - when he is a simple bard. He tries to keep his mind from wandering. Forcing himself to note every detail of the grand castle in a desperate attempt to stop himself from running away, leaving Geralt will his destiny, as he’s so tempted to do. 

“There will be a feast tonight, in your honour. But first, I’ll show you to your rooms,” Ciri says. 

“One will suffice.” 

Ciri and Jaskier both shoot Geralt a look, though for different reasons. When travelling, Jaskier could always rationalise how two men sharing a room would look - for financial reasons only. He wouldn’t dare do anything that could tarnish Geralt’s reputation. 

“Of course,” Ciri says, moving past the fact that Geralt just admitted they’re together much smoother than Jaskier is. “It’s beautiful, I promise.” 

Geralt senses his discomfort, taking Jaskier’s hand and squeezes it. His golden eyes are asking silently. 

_Later_ , Jaskier mouths. When they’re alone, away from even Ciri’s kind eyes. 

“You came at the perfect time.” Ciri grows a look in her eyes that makes her look older than her years - wiser, with the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

“Political trouble?” Geralt assumes. 

“You wouldn’t believe it. As if reclaiming the throne and beating back the Nilfgaardians wasn’t enough to prove my capabilities.” 

“I only left because I thought Cintra was in a time of peace and rest.” 

“We were. But, recently, it seems that after almost seven years of ruling, _now_ my opponents have decided to question me.” 

The way Ciri speaks is amusing to Jaskier. Her words are those of a woman decades her elder, and yet, she had greeted Geralt as a child does after missing their parent. It will be interesting to see how Cintra develops under her rule. 

“We can stay, if you like, until everything settles again,” Geralt says. 

Ciri’s eyes dart to Jaskier for a second. “Are you sure?” They can all tell she's asking the bard more than Geralt. 

“I’d love to beat up some snobby nobles,” he says. 

“Try again,” Geralt mutters. 

“Fine. I'd love to stay. A castle beats the forest,” Jaskier says with a shrug. 

Ciri hums in agreement. “And you don’t have to bathe in rivers.” 

“Or sleep on the ground.” 

“Who could live like that?” 

“A barbarian.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” Geralt cuts in sharply - though his lips are curled in a small smile. 

Jaskier and Ciri meet each other’s gaze over him, falling into laughter. 

“How _did_ you survive so long with him?” Ciri asks, ignoring the way Geralt grumbles at her. 

“I have no idea,” Jaskier says. “And the fact that you turned out so civilised despite him, it’s a miracle.” 

“Okay, you know what - ” Geralt glances between the two, ignoring their sly smiles - “I’ll just leave. You can stay here, keep insulting me though.” 

“Bye,” Ciri says as Jaskier says, “See you later.” 

Geralt is torn between keeping his grimace or laughing and enjoying the banter. So instead he simply groans, “This was a mistake.”

“And now you’re stuck with us.” Ciri nudges him with her elbow, earning an annoyed eye roll. 

The hallway drags on, their steps in perfect unison and there’s scarcely a heartbeat of silence. Jaskier hasn’t found himself this joyful in new company for a long, long time but he and Ciri seem to fit together like they were always meant to. 

By the time they stop outside a room, Jaskier finds that his cheeks are starting to ache - and suddenly spending however long here doesn’t seem as much as a favour for Geralt anymore. 

Ciri turns, pushing open the grand oak door to reveal the wide-stretching chamber behind it. Jaskier’s eyes land on the bed first, big enough to fit half a dozen, and skip over to the burning fireplace. 

“Wash up. I’ll bring a change of clothes, and see you at dinner in an hour,” Ciri says, standing in the threshold as the men float inside. 

“Why not stay?” Geralt asks. 

“I have a few things I need to deal with, but it’ll be quick, I promise.” 

With that, Ciri leaves, closing the door behind her. Geralt watches the wood as though she might reappear. 

“I understand why she’s the Lion Cub of Cintra, now,” Jaskier says, sitting down on the soft mattress that starts to swallow him. 

“Hmm.” 

“She’s not how you remember her?” Jaskier assumes. That particular hmm is hard to decipher - when not even Geralt is sure how he’s feeling. 

“No, she is, just so much _more_ at the same time.”

“What can I do to help?” 

Geralt hesitates. “Ciri did say to clean up before dinner.”

Geralt moves across the room, taking Jaskier’s hand as he passes by the bed on his path for the bathroom. Jaskier smiles, a flutter in his chest. 

-

The dinner hall is extravagant, to say the least. Tables and chandeliers line the elongated room and the lively hum of the crowd is already soaring by the time Jaskier and Geralt join. 

Naturally, Jaskier’s eyes scan the dial, expecting to see Ciri at her throne - to see what kind of imposing queen she really is. But he finds nothing. There’s no throne, not even a table on the raised platform. 

“Geralt. Jaskier,” calls Ciri’s voice and it takes him a while to spot her in the crowd. 

She sits amongst her people, in plain clothes, and not even a crown on her white hair. Ciri waves them over, two places before her are still free. Jaskier suddenly feels overdressed - the clothes left out for him by some servants after he and Geralt emerged from the bathroom are now too bright, too flashy compared to what the queen is wearing. 

Wordlessly, Jaskier and Geralt take their place - eyeing the mountains of food on the table. 

“Hey, I was just telling Avra about that Fleder we fought,” Ciri says, pointing to the woman on her right. “Remember, my first kill?” 

“How could I forget?” There’s a softness in Geralt’s eyes at the memory, fondness despite all Jaskier can imagine is a small girl wielding a sword twice her size. 

The woman - Avra - looks to Geralt with eyes as dark as the night but almost ablaze with intrigue. “Is it true? I’ve seen her with a sword, but that feat, at her age, impossible.” 

“She refuses to believe me. My own general doesn’t believe me.” 

Few people around erupt into laughter, though the remaining crowd remains unaware and uncaring of what is being said. So unlike any kingdom Jaskier’s come to know, where its people hang onto every word said by their rulers. Ciri, it seems, is truly one of her people’s. 

And as Geralt and Ciri begin their recounting, Jaskier finds himself slipping into his mind, unable to keep himself present. He pretends to be active, reaching for various bits of food to keep up appearances. His thoughts wander. 

Mostly onto the sharp jawed queen before him, her eyes are full of life until a clatter of a dropped goblet sounds through the dining hall. She snaps to attention, stilling as a soldier for just a heartbeat, returning happily to the chatter as though nothing had happened. 

The girl is used to running. 

But she’s ready, trained to be a strong warrior. Jaskier can’t help but think that her grandmother, Calanthe, would be proud. That woman, though Jaskier had never spoken a word to her, was equal parts beautiful and terrifying. He hopes that Ciri will take those traits, and add more as she grows with her kingdom. Generous, kind, powerful. 

Jaskier sighs, remembering that night he played at the ball, and the utter chaos that had erupted from there. 

How many years has it been since that night? It feels like only yesterday, Jaskier feels no older than he did then. But he must be, right? Last time he saw his reflection he looked no less youthful than back then, than when he met Geralt. That’s… that’s not right. Is it? 

Oh. 

Oh, _fuck_. 

-

They spend many long and brutal years in Cintra, but just as many sweet and joyful ones. Ciri finds that few want to challenge her with a Witcher by her side, and Geralt is more than happy to oblige. 

Jaskier seamlessly fits into place here - with his music to occupy any formal event or simply when Ciri has had a long day and needs a rest. And other times, he and the general, Avra, spend the days practising, both with a weapon and a lute. 

Geralt continues slaying monsters, though only those in the vicinity of Cintra, and takes Ciri and Jaskier and Avra, and all those that show interest and are deemed capable. He is still the White Wolf, just simply, not a lone one anymore. 

It’s surprising how quickly routine settles over Geralt and Jaskier, and how willingly they take to it. Such a vast difference to the travelling and just scraping by lifestyle they’d become accustomed to. It’s not unwelcome but… new. And Geralt is still learning how to let new things into his life. 

And once he does, Jaskier is always there to keep him guessing. 

“Do you remember,” he says, early one morning as they watch the sunrise over the horizon, “when we planned to sail the seas?” Do you still want that?” 

Geralt pauses for the briefest moment. “I thought you had forgotten about it.” 

“I did, for a while. Answer the question.” 

He doesn’t have to think twice. “I remember and yes, I still want that.” 

“Then why haven’t we gone? There’s been plenty of opportunities.” 

“Well, let’s take this one.” 

And that is all that is needed for the preparations to begin. Ciri agrees, far too enthusiastically, and arranges a vessel and a crew for them. Just under two months it takes, and Ciri is pushing them off before another political mishap can happen and interrupt their plans. 

Two months - and they are standing at the harbour.

The ship is one of beauty, strong wood that floats effortlessly in the glistening water. Geralt stands next to an awestruck Jaskier, his mouth hanging open as his eyes hold everything he can’t find the words to say. 

“Geralt,” he whispers, his hand coming to grasp at the Witcher’s shirt like a lifeline. 

Geralt grins - he always aspires to render his bard speechless and this fills him with a joy like no other. 

“Only the best for you,” Geralt says, uncaring of the eyes of the crew around them as he wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, tucking his chin onto his shoulder. 

“Did you come up with the name?” 

Written across the side for all to see in golden paint sits the ship’s name. _Songbird_. 

“I want everyone to know who this belongs to. Is that so bad?” 

“You know - ” Jaskier faces his Witcher - “that cold exterior of yours wasn’t so hard to break. How do I know I am the first one to do so?” 

Geralt purrs into Jaskier’s ears. “Trust me, my love, you are the first one I’ve let break it.” 

“Oh, you let me?” 

“Just take it. I got you a ship after all.” 

“Your lion cub did,” Jaskier mutters. Adding louder, “Is everything prepared?”

Geralt nods. “Just waiting on us.”

“And Roach?” 

“She will be looked after, she’s always liked Ciri,” Geralt says, blinking back the stinging pain of longing. If it weren’t so cruel, he’d bring his mare along for the voyage. 

He’d spent the better part of this morning with her, explaining that it will only be six months until he returns, and she’ll be spoiled rotten the whole time. It pained him to leave her at the castle but if she were here, he might never leave. 

“A shame the queen couldn’t send us off,” Jaskier says. “I’ll miss her.” 

“Ciri’s grown quite fond of you. And I know she would rather be down here than in a council meeting.” 

“Poor girl.” 

Geralt chuckles, tearing himself from Jaskier’s warmth and takes his hand - leading him away from where they stand on the pier. They board Songbird and set off, for lands and adventures unknown.

-

The rocking of the ship is gentle, the moonlight on the water like a perfect picture. Geralt is happier than he’s ever been, with Jaskier in his arms.

“So,” Jaskier says, his voice scarcely a whisper, “I may be immortal.” 


End file.
